Winter Rose
by Fangirl.703
Summary: Clary Morgenstern has been trapped as a slave for years, made prisoner by her own brother and father, forced to do unspeakable things that no teenager should do. Until she meets a certain golden lion, she doesn't believe she can ever be saved. Winter is coming to New York but will it save or raze her? Human AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Winter Rose_

_Alright lovelies. I have another story for you. Don't be mad at me but I couldn't resist making a Clace story. I know my forte is Clonathan stories, and they still are, don't worry, but I couldn't resist making just one, at least one, Clace. I'm still continuing my Clonathan so don't freak. But, I hope you guys like this._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing save the plot. Sadly._

_WARNING-_

_Rape_

_Sex- definitely non con_

_Dark concepts_

_Not for the light hearted_

_And I sincerely apologize if I offend anyone but I'm not one to write stories about rainbow pooping unicorns. Sorry. Those who do enjoy my stories, hope you like this Clace one even though I know most of my fans are secret Clonathan shippers. But seriously, I know all of you are Clace shippers. Clonthan is just your dirty erotica. Totally fine with that, one myself. Anyway. There's still dirty, twisted stuff in there for our badder selves._

_Haha. Don't hate me for making it Clace. I'm actually commissioning another Clonathan story too as of now._

Clary sits on the bleachers, waiting for her brother to finish football practice because her father made him pick her up from Alicante High School. She doesn't understand why her father got her a perfectly good black Suzuki Hayabusa motorbike and not let her drive herself to school; making her brother drive her half the year just so she can sit on the bleachers of Idris University to watch 4 hours of her brother's football practice is lost on her. Then again her father takes pleasure in causing her misery, her brother likes showing off his prize little sister to his friends and likes showing off his physical ability to her. That is when he and her father aren't forcing her into the bedroom or slave work.

She shivers as she brushes her fingers over her concealed bruise on her right cheekbone. Before the ugly memories of last night and all those before can assault her, she turns back to her geometry homework sitting in her lap. Probably the only benefit of having four hours on cold metal bleachers, optionally watching her brother body slam people, is the time she gets to herself to complete her school work. Whenever Clary is at home she's usually being abused in one way or another or recovering from her wounds. Sometimes she stays up through most of the night to get her homework done.

She aches for her mother to be here but would never wish the fate that had descended onto Clary after she died. Four years ago, Jocelyn Morgenstern died, was murdered more like. Shot in the street by one of her father's enemies. Being the District Attorney can have its perks but Clary's never viewed all the money or luxuries she's gotten over the years as a blessing. She's only viewed it as pitiful compensation for her mother's death.

Her cheek throbs as she prods it with her fingers. The beatings weren't ever nonexistent, they were just few and far between. Valentine truly loved her mother and she was the only thing that shielded Clary from Valentine's hand and her brother's perverse, incestuous interest in her. Valentine takes his grief and anger out on her, blaming her for Jocelyn's death because she had asked her mother to get her another paintbrush when she'd been shot. He's heaped all of Jocelyn's responsibilities onto her, along with anything else that her father deemed unworthy for the attention of Valentine and his golden boy.

Jonathan's always been her father's golden boy; that didn't change when Jocelyn died. He goes to this college on his full ride football scholarship, studying to get his law major. Following in daddy's footsteps. She doesn't blame her father or her brother for what they do, she feels as guilty as Valentine accuses her of being and this is punishment for her want. They're grieving just like her, her father lost the love of his life and her brother lost his most beloved mother.

That still doesn't make her fear them any less. After her mother died, Jonathan came forward with his amoral affiliation for her. It still disgusts her that her brother would have this kind of affection toward her but at least he's gentler than Valentine. Valentine uses her for the similarity she shares with Jocelyn, using her roughly and painfully then shoving her away in disgust for not being her mother. He leaves her broken and bruised on her bed, alone in her room, hopefully for the rest of the night so she can recover and drag herself out of bed for the next day of abuse.

With Jonathan, she fought, just like she did with Valentine for the first few months but after a while she discovered the futility of trying to stop her brother and father. Now she just lets them beat and abuse her, use her and throw her away to be picked up again in a few days, it causes her less pain that way. Her brother actually makes a point in bringing her to orgasm instead of using her body roughly like Valentine. Jonathan hardy ever leaves bruises from the nights in bed and when he does, it was from gripping her body too harshly.

She thinks Jonathan's kindness stems from the kindness she showed him when they were younger. When Valentine would whip him bloody with his belt. Clary would always find him lying bloody in the family room where he hadn't dared move from. He'd never wanted to upset their mother by telling her, her husband beat their first born but Clary wouldn't have it. Eventually, he'd come crawling to her room to seek comfort, only comfort. The first few times she let him slip into her bed and snuggle her close as his back ached but as she got older and more capable, she began bandaging the wounds on his back. Maybe it's because she never alienated him from her bed. Maybe he brings her to orgasm because it brings him pleasure to see hers. She's pondered on this many times and she still can't figure it out.

Some days she regrets that kindness because that would mean one less man using her body for his own delights. But she would never change the way she treated him in the past if she was given the opportunity. She just didn't have it in her to leave her brother bleeding and in pain on the floor of their living room. If she wasn't kind to him he might have turned out like Valentine and still forced her to be a bed slave to him. This way at least half of the experiences she isn't completely in pain and it disgusts her that she has a _preference _over which family member screws her. The one that beats her and uses her so painfully she can barely move in the morning or the one who at least gives her some pleasure and isn't always hitting her. It sickens her that she has to choose the lesser of two evils but this is her life and she's learned to live with it.

She stows her homework as the practice starts to wrap up and some men head off to the locker room while others change on the field in their rush to get home. Her brother would be one of those. Most likely wanting to get home to screw her or get his time in with her before Valentine uses her and he has to wait until she recovers enough to even feel a touch down there. She waits on the bleachers with her bag slung over her shoulder. She grimaces and switches her bag to her other shoulder as it pressed down on the hand shaped bruise beneath her long sleeve shirt and leather biking jacket.

Valentine was especially rough last night, just as he always is the two weeks before and after the anniversary of Jocelyn's murder. It's only one week in. Three more to go. She watches her brother remove his helmet, tousling his cropped white blond hair. She's still amazed at how much he looks like Valentine. Same white blond hair, same black eyes, same muscled build. Though Jonathan is leaner, lither where her father is broad shouldered and built like an ox. Her brother takes off his jersey and unhooks all of his padding, baring his toned abdomen and chest while talking to one of his college buddies, Sebastian.

He throws his padding into his bag and pulls in a loose t-shirt, leaving his practice shorts on. He does one of the elaborate and completely unnecessary guy handshakes with Sebastian before looking up at her and motioning for her to come down from the bleachers. She doesn't miss Sebastian's lusty stare out of the corner of her eye as she walks down the benches. If she ever told her brother of Sebastian's attentions to her, he'd skin him alive, friend or no. He's that possessive and the only other man that's been able to touch her or even look at her has been her father, which Jonathan can do nothing over.

She follows him, feeling a little less stressed knowing she's gotten all her homework done for the day. She trails behind her brother to his sleek gray Corvette, where it sits in the middle of the almost abandoned parking lot. Being the D.A.'s kids does have its perks with all the income Valentine earns but she prefers her bike to the car. She looks over at her brother and his irate lope. A shot of fear runs through her; he's mad at something and whenever he's mad, it's complete and utter hell for her. Most of the time, when Valentine raves and abuses her, Jonathan curbs some of that anger slightly.

After she's dragged herself back to her room, if Valentine hadn't decided to use her that night, Jonathan would usually come in to check on her and sometimes clean up her injuries, depending on how bad they are and if she can reach them. He's sometimes come in in the morning if Valentine had used her the night previous to help her up but not all the time. Usually it's just her trying to recover on her own.

Either of the men using her doesn't happen every night. Some days she gets reprieves, nights to herself, not that she's allowed to go out. Some days it's only Valentine abusing her, some abusing and using her. Others, Jonathan but those rare few days a month she gets to herself she relishes, even though she uses them to get her homework done because even though they aren't forcing her into bed or beating her for the hell of it, she still has to make dinner and clean up the house to Valentine's satisfaction.

Her pass out time on those nights devoid of sex is usually midnight, the ones with maybe one then if she stays up to do homework or anything else, it's four or five. She has to get up at six for school. Those nights she has to herself either because she has her period or Valentine is working late and Jonathan is off with friends. Sometimes Valentine is stuck at the office and Jonathan isn't out with friends but doesn't make her do anything either. Those days, where Valentine is gone and Jonathan doesn't care or they're both gone are her golden days because neither of them order her around, she can make dinner for herself, get chores done early, get homework done early and pass out around ten or eleven for a blessed seven or eight hours of sleep.

She used to spend those nights with her best friend Simon but he moved under mysterious circumstances after he found out about Clary's abuse. He'd tried to do something about it but having the abuser be the D.A. typically doesn't work out well for a fifteen year old boy who doesn't have solid evidence and Clary is too scared to testify against her father and brother. She'd tried calling Simon but his number got changed and Valentine changed theirs so she hasn't spoken to him since then. That's one of the reasons why her brother and father don't allow her any friends, especially guys.

She's always made sure to cover up any marks on her face with concealer, which Valentine makes sure to keep well stocked, threatening her if she doesn't keep the bruises concealed and she always wears sweat shirts and loose jeans or sweaters and her biker jacket to keep everything else on her body-bruises, cuts and scars-hidden. She's learned to keep her mouth shut about it all for fear her beatings might become worse or the people who try to help will get hurt.

Her brother pops the trunk of the Corvette and throws his bag in, slamming the trunk closed. Clary makes sure to keep silent and her eyes cast out the window as she climbs into the passenger seat. Jonathan slams his door closed and revvs the engine before peeling out of the parking lot. It doesn't take long for the college campus to disappear and turn into the upper class district mansions. Jonathan speeds by them all to the one that sits at the end of the street.

The turn of the century mansion is a lavish display of Valentine's wealth that he loves to wallow in and of course, even with his beating of Clary, he always provides her with the best to show off her status. She hates it but doesn't regret picking out her sleek black Hayabusa motorcycle. The D.A.'s children it appears, have to keep up the appearance of snobbery even if Clary doesn't haven't a mean bone in her body. The circular garden out front is lush with trees that burst with fall colors and the fountain in the center of the circular driveway still manages to pump water out of its spout despite the cold weather. All gated in with a state of the art security system and the gate opens for the two children of the estate as Jonathan pushes the button on the remote clipped to his visor.

As Jonathan pulls up to the marble steps of the house in the circular drive, Clary is relieved to find the absence of their father's car. Which means he's stuck at work. Usually if he's not back by now, he won't be coming back until early morning, which means Clary won't have to see him until tomorrow night. Bless political arguments for holding up her father!

Jonathan storms out of the car and up the stairs, pulling out his house keys as Clary steps out of the car. She quietly closes the door, a little more at ease about her brother's anger seeing as their father isn't here, and walks up the steps behind her brother as he throws open one of the two oak doors to their mansion. Clary closes the door behind them and locks it as Jonathan storms off. Clary stands in the entry hall for a moment, waiting for her father's expected shouts to get dinner started or to get him a beer to watch his game but she just climbs the stairs after only hearing Jonathan's angered footsteps on the other side of the house.

Inside her rooms, she purses her lips as she sees her mussed bed, the white sheets and comforter still awry from last night's beating. Her large, four poster, plantation bed sits against the wall decorated with a waterfall scene in an Amazonian forest. She remembers painting that with her mother, just a few months before she died. She can still see the two of them laughing and stroking paint across her wall and Jonathan would come in and sit on her bed to watch the two of them while they worked. She turns away as she sees the unfinished spot on the mural. They couldn't finish before Jocelyn died, that was why she'd gone out, to get Clary another paintbrush to finish the leaf patterns on the trees.

Setting her bag on the cushy desk chair in front of her desk, beside the window with automatic black out shades that look out on the eastern side of the forested three acres that sit on the outside of New York City, she turns to make her bed, trying to wash away memories of last night. Once that's done, Clary heads back downstairs to the kitchen to start dinner. She might as well make some for her brother too, just in case he bothers with her tonight.

Down in the kitchen, she's content to work in silence as she fries the chicken on the stove and boils the pasta. She has no clue where her brother disappeared to and is thankful he hasn't shown up to take his anger out on her. She pulls out a saucepan and pours in her white sauce she made a few minutes ago. Adding in a few spices she returns to the chicken, flipping it over to brown the other side.

She doesn't even bother acknowledging the shout from her brother to get dinner started. She just continues working, knowing her brother isn't expecting a response from her and by the time he comes into the kitchen, she already has dinner on plates and at the table. Jonathan comes in and sits across from her, picking up his fork he starts to eat.

As Clary eats she notices how tense and angry he still is. She knows she'll probably get beaten or chastised if she asks, that's why she's learned to just keep her mouth shut around Valentine but Jonathan isn't one for beating her for speaking so she might as well ask then take the punishment if there is one.

"Why are you mad?" Clary asks hesitantly.

Jonathan doesn't look up from his plate. "Did I say you could speak?" He snaps. Clary falls silent, waiting on the backhand across her cheek. He continues eating irately until he sets his fork down with bang and looks up at her. She startles and freezes in place with her fork in the pasta. "Some dick head invalidated my argument and then stole the credit for himself. I mean, my argument was perfectly sound with evidence and alibis but no, he had to come in and sabotage my evidence so it becomes invalid and I can't use it in my case but then I turn around and find him using the exact same evidence and explanations that I was using!"

Clary stays completely silent and still as Jonathan continues ranting about his placebos case that the college has them working on. Eventually her food gets cold and her appetite leaves the room with the heat as she thinks about what her brother might do to her because of his anger. He might hit her across the cheek or throw her to the ground and kick her in the ribs. No, that's more Valentine's style. Jonathan likes verbal abuse because he knows he can debase any man, woman or child with a few simple words. That's what makes him a good lawyer.

Jonathan eventually stops raving about the man who stole his case and throws his dish in the sink before storming out again. Clary stands and moves to the sink to clean off the dishes and put them in the washer before she goes up to her room and closes the door. She hasn't locked t in years because the last time she did it earned her a broken rib. So she leaves the door unlocked and walks over to her desk.

It's around eight in the evening now and she'd done chores last night, before Valentine had come home because Jonathan hadn't had football practice. So she got all her chores done early, just in time for Valentine's two hour marathon of beatings and rape. Whoopee. She'll probably go to bed in a few minutes but she wants to sketch for a little while. Pulling up the desk chair she flips open her leather bound sketch book, past her portraits and landscapes. She pauses on one of her portraits of her mother and father from behind. They were sitting on the hill in the backyard, watching the sunset. Jocelyn had her head leaning against Valentine's shoulder and Valentine leant his cheek on top of her head.

Clary had sat behind them and sketched it out then added colors later. They hadn't known she'd sketched them but she cherishes the picture. It was when they'd all loved each other and it'd been peaceful. Tears sting the backs of her eyes as she stares at the illumination. It was when she'd had her virginity, her freedom, her friends and her dignity. Now she's a slave and a prisoner. She isn't allowed to go out lest she be punished. Valentine fears she'll actually make friends who can make more accusations against him and her brother. Jonathan is too possessive to let her out of the house when Valentine's at work.

Well, actually she could walk out the front doors right now and no one would notice, it would be the coming home that scares her. So here she sits, every evening, waiting for one of the men to barge in and use her. In the picture it didn't used to be like that, they would all sit down to dinner and laugh around the table. She'd used to sit in between her parents on their bed while Jonathan laid across the foot as they watched T.V. She remembered when Jonathan would pick her up and swing her around the yard as she shrieked with laughter.

She also remembers Jonathan coming in to her room when she was ten, his perfect fourteen year old face marred by a bruise and tears. It was around midnight and Clary had gone to bed early because she had an art show the next day. She rolled over in bed to face her brother standing in the doorway, shaking with pain only she hadn't realized it then.

"What's wrong Jonny?" She'd asked in her prepubescent, girlish voice, calling her brother by his nickname. He'd smiled weakly and crossed the room, brushing away her red curls from her sleepy face.

"Nothing, Clare Bear. I just wanted to come in a say goodnight," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Clary wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a hug. He'd hesitantly hugged her back, moving as though every jolt caused him pain.

"Love you Jonny," Clary had whispered.

"Love you too, little sister," he'd whispered back. He kneeled on the bed. "Do you mind if I sleep in here tonight? I think my bed is made of rocks."

Clary had giggled sleepily and pulled away from him, tugging back the covers. "Of course silly," she said quietly, scooting over so he could slip in between the sheets. Clary had rolled over as her brother settled on his stomach, reaching over to clasp her hand, squeezing almost painfully but Clary hadn't said anything, thinking he was having a nightmare. She didn't know then that he laid on his stomach because his back had been bleeding and raw or was holding her hand in a death grip because the pain was too much or that he asked to sleep in her room because he couldn't make it to his own room.

"Goodnight," he whispered.

"Goodnight," she replied, not knowing that that single word had set off her brother's amoral attraction and had damned her to her current fate. She was only being nice. Every time after that, Jonathan had wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her up against him. Clary had always turned to him and tucked her nose in his shoulder.

She changes her mind about sketching, reliving all the bad memories of the last four years, the bruises and breaks and cuts and rapes. Closing her sketchbook she puts her head in her hands, resting her elbows on the desk. She holds back the tears, she doesn't need to be crying. Today's supposed to be a good day. She got her homework done, Valentine's stuck at work and Jonathan is angry but off taking his anger out somewhere else. She got her chores done, dinner made and gets four extra hours of sleep to herself.

But she had to ruin it with bitter memories. She chokes as she presses on the bruise branded on her cheekbone. Valentine had backhanded her for screaming as he took her in her own bed. Gripped her shoulder painfully as he drove himself into her. She's surprised she isn't broken yet but no, her body is determined to keep up its vigor. She stands, pushing her chair away from her desk and striding over to her bathroom to wash away all her makeup and dirt from the day.

After finishing and dressing in a cotton tank top and shorts she stands in front of the mirror to access the wounds she didn't get a chance to yesterday. The whole of her right cheek is black and blue, her shoulders a patch work of bruises. Her hips ache in pain from being repeatedly slammed into. Rotating her left wrist she thinks it might be sprained and she has a cut with dried blood across the front of her chest. It's not as bad as he usually is. Most times she can't move properly for a solid twenty four hours and she has at least one break or sprain.

She turns away from her mirror and walks back into her bedroom. She jumps as she sees her brother standing illuminated by the autumn moonlight in front of her windows. Her heart sinks as she knows the only reason for him to be in here. Well, at least she held the fantasy of a free night for just a little while. He's leaning against the wall, looking into the room and more specifically at her with his arms crossed in front of his chest. She doesn't say anything as he pushes off from the wall and strides over to her, his body moving with a deadly grace born of vigorous exercise.

Standing directly in front of her, he leans down and brushes the backs of two fingers over the bruise on her cheek. She jerks her face away, wincing at the contact. She doesn't allow her brother to show her sympathy in her wounds when he's usually the cause of a half of them. Jonathan turns her face back up to his and kisses her. She doesn't return the kiss, only lets her brother manipulate her body as he spins her around and tosses her on her bed.

She lies on her back, staring up at her canopy as she hears her brother strip his clothes. She closes her eyes as she hears the fabric whisper to the ground, wishing she could breeze away from this life or at least blank her mind out enough to not be present but all she ever does during sex with either her brother or father is remember what happened to put her here. Her mother's death, the beatings that followed, the brutal night when her virginity was stolen by her brother. He got to her first before Valentine figured out she looked so much like Jocelyn he could use her as a visual substitute. Having been deflowered by her brother though only caused Valentine to lash out at her, calling her a slut because she wasn't a virgin.

That's all she can remember as she feels her brother stripping her shorts and panties from her. Prone beneath her brother, she feels him stroke into her, feels him touch her in all the places Valentine didn't bruise, essentially guaranteeing a bruise on the only working parts of her body once her brother gets up to pace. He knows where Valentine likes to hold onto her and to strike her and he makes an effort not to touch her in those places, hold her in the places that don't hurt. That's why he's being so slow and gentle right now, because he knows she's hurting but once his hormones and orgasm take over, he's lost to it and all those unmarked places get bruised with the ferocity he drives into her with.

She moans as her hormones build and her pleasure coalesces, Jonathan making his effort to give her some semblance of pleasure. He's kissing her neck as he strokes but Clary doesn't take anything more than the skin deep, biological pleasure brought on by sex. She used to think herself a monster from finding pleasure in sex with her brother but the more biology and sex education classes she'd taken, the more she realized it was only a natural reaction and nothing more, not if you don't love the man who's penetrating you. In this case she loves him as a brother, she always will no matter what he does to her but that love has been greatly reduced and will never reach or come near the incestuous desire her brother has toward her.

She cries out as her brother triggers her orgasm. Her body slick with sweat, she lies still beneath him as the pleasure rolls through her and Jonathan continues to slam into her, looking for his release and heightening hers with his movement. Finally, he's pushed over the edge and Clary can relax as he withdraws. She can already feel bruises forming and her hips and pelvis ache painfully as she tries not to shift around.

She might as well just sleep where she is, in only her tank top on top of her sheets but no, her brother has to move her under the covers. Though he does it gently, she has to take great effort in not whimpering or screaming out in pain. Once beneath her sheets, she lets herself drift, blocking out the dip of her mattress as her brother crawls in after her, laying a light arm across her stomach. She doesn't think Jonathan realizes he does it out of habit but ever since that night and the many whippings afterward, even when he's not injured, he sleeps on his stomach as he does now and she can feel him beside her.

She hears her brother say goodnight and doesn't bother responding. The little girl who welcomed her big brother into her bed, who would have said goodnight, died alongside her mother on the streets of New York. She eventually falls asleep to the constant throbbing rhythm of her bruises and aches, despite the presence of her brother sleeping beside her. She's just grateful he didn't do a two hour marathon like Valentine last night and that she at least gets a couple hours extra of sleep.

She wakes in the middle of the night to the front door slamming. Her heart practically bursts from her chest in fear as she realizes Valentine's home. She also is crushed by how badly her body hurts and the prospect of how much worse it's going to feel in the morning when she has to get up for school. She can hear him trudging up the stairs as she stares at her ceiling, not having the will to move. She tenses as he gets closer to her room.

Almost jumping out of her skin when she feels fingers tracing light circles over her hip. She looks over to see her brother still here, still has his arm draped over her. His eyes are still closed but his breathing tells her he's somewhat conscious.

"Don't worry. He won't come in this late," Jonathan murmurs drowsily. Knowing Valentine, she wouldn't put it past him to barge in, wake her up in the middle of the night and beat her, rape her then leave her to recover but with her brother here at least she has some reprieve because the men seem to have a lasting deal where if one's with her, the other doesn't disturb in any way, shape or form.

True to Clary's beliefs, her door opens and she doesn't dare turn her head, knowing who it is. Her body tenses unbelievably but Jonathan just splays his hand across her stomach. She holds her breath.

"Go away Father. Go get some sleep," Jonathan says, loud enough for the man at the door to hear through his muffled voice against her pillows. She lets out her breath as she hears the door close but her stomach sinks at the prospect that attempt has set up for tonight.

She soon returns to a fretful sleep, like most sleeps she has when Jonathan has decided to take up temporary residence in her bed. Even in sleep her body knows not to move, lest she aggravate the pain radiating through her muscles and skin. Eventually, the sound of her alarm blaring the morning news wakes her again. She opens her eyes and lays there for a few minutes, listening to the forecast and how another shooting took place in downtown last night. She forces herself to move, causing her body to scream out in pain as she turns off the alarm.

She moves to haul herself out of bed to dress and conceal her new bruises and almost cries out as an arm tightens around her waist. Looking over she sees her brother still lying on her bed, still mostly asleep and holding her in bed, his arm pressing against some of the more sensitive and painful parts of her body.

"Don't leave yet," he mumbles.

"Jonathan, I have school," Clary complains, wiggling around a bit so his arm doesn't press too harshly against her.

"I'll call you in sick then," he replies, dragging her back over to him.

She pushes his arm away and slips from the bed. "No," she says. There is no way she's missing a day of school, the only thing that gives her a break from her brother and father. If she stayed here, Jonathan would have at her again, not having classes until noon and after he left, Valentine would start in on her and she doesn't think she's recovered enough, nor will she be within the next three days, to deal with his anger.

"Just because you're a legal adult and can pull me out of school whenever you want doesn't mean you should. I have class and projects due. I need to go," she says, pulling of a pair of loose jeans and a sweater. After concealing her visible bruises she pulls on her biker jacket over the sweater and grabs her school bag and bike keys, her brother not having practice today.

Jonathan is still lying on her bed and she ignores him as she heads out the door downstairs to her Hayabusa. The only benefit of having to go to school is waking up before her brother and leaving the house after her father. Though today she suspects he's still crashed in his own bed from the all-nighter he pulled. In the kitchen she quickly makes herself a piece of toast, sticks it between her teeth and heads out the front door, locking up behind her.

She straddles her motor cycle as she finishes her pathetic breakfast and zips up her leather jacket. She pulls on her black helmet, tucking her red hair up and lowers the tinted visor. It's still mostly dark out due to the changing of the seasons and she turns on her headlight before starting up her bike. Pulling up to the gate, she presses her controller to open it and peels out into the almost abandoned New York street.

Her school is about five miles away and she travels the back roads, loving the silence and peace of it. Due to her own bike she doesn't hear the sports car pulling up behind her. She's racing down the street, almost to the entrance of the high school parking lot when a gray Aston Martin zooms past her, coming close to clipping the side of her bike. She rolls her eyes, mumbling 'jackass' under her breath as she watches the Aston roll into a parking spot near the doors. Clary pulls into one of the motorcycle spots down the row.

She puts her kickstand down, turning off her bike. She's always early, always wants to be early so she can get away from her family. She loves the sunrise peeking over the school building. It makes her feel like she's the only person in the world. She closes her eyes and breathes in the cold morning air, relishing in the freshness of it that is until she feels a hand clap her shoulder, the bruised one. She jumps, drawing in a breath between her teeth before wrenching away from the hand. She turns, pulling off her helmet and facing the person who clapped her on the shoulder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Clary asks. She hates being touched by her brother and father against her will and she certainly doesn't like being touched by anyone else. Especially on one of her bruises or injuries. The man behind her is tall and blond and drop dead gorgeous but she really doesn't care about men nor is she interested in a relationship due to her family. But she has to admit, his golden curls frame a perfect face and his build is tall and lean and muscled. He's wearing a tanned leather jacket with nice, designer jeans, meaning he's probably a spoiled rich snob and his arrogant gait all but confirms it.

Though right now, with Clary glaring at him, he stands shocked and openmouthed. "I-I was, uh," he pauses and clears his throat, regaining his composure. "I was coming over to apologize for almost running you off the road. I didn't see you there."

Clary puts her helmet on her bike and swings her leg over, pulling her keys out and slipping them in her pocket. She checks her bag, mumbling, "It's fine." Before she takes to the sidewalk and walks toward the school. The blond man follows her, slinging his pack over his shoulder and running to catch up with her. She really wishes he would just go away, all the other people leave her alone and she's always been content without the attention.

"Hey, I'm new here," the man says beside her and Clary pushes open the door.

"That's a peculiar name," Clary says, still ignoring him. It's still about a half hour before school starts. She's usually the only one here besides teachers and she paints in the art room. She doesn't know why this man would be here this early, maybe to get his classes or schedule. She continues walking, ignoring the man and hoping he'll go away.

She hears him laugh but doesn't bother looking at him. _Please go away. _"And I was hoping you could show me around. I don't know where half these classes are."

She pauses in the doorway and turns to the blond. The look on his face is cute, confused and hopeful. She sighs and holds out her hand, hoping the stiffness of her movements isn't terribly noticeable. "Let me see your schedule," she says quietly.

The blond digs in his bag before handing her a slip of paper. She looks over it, the black ink slightly fuzzy as her headache comes back from yesterday. After a second it clears but not before rain splatters down on the paper. She looks up just in time to get drenched in the sudden downpour. The blond laughs and pulls her inside the doors while she wipes away the water from her face, being sure not to press too harshly on her cheek.

"Sorry about that," Clary says, wringing out his schedule. "Um, your first class is with Mr. Starkweather, biology. I have him first class too, so I'll walk you there. C'mon," she says, avoiding his gaze and walking down to Mr. Starkweather's class room.

"I'm Jace by the way. I just moved here from England," he says, keeping close to her side. She slides away, chills running down her spine at the proximity. And not the good kind.

"England? Really? Where's your accent?" Clary asks, walking past Ms. Penhallow's classroom, Jace's third class as well as hers. Looking over his schedule, they have the same classes, all except two.

"Right here," he says with a perfect English accent. "I just didn't want yet another thing making me the odd man out. I'm already new."

Clary stops in front of Mr. Starkweather's classroom. She knows how he feels but she won't let him know that. She smiles shyly at him. "Yeah, well I'm sure with your looks you'll be fine around here. This school is built on the shallowness of other people."

Clary pushes open the door and finds Mr. Starkweather sitting at his desk. He looks up and smiles at Clary. "Good morning Clarissa. What can I help you with?"

"Not me, Mr. Starkweather. You have a new student and I was just showing him around," Clary turns to Jace who's standing behind her. He steps forward and extends his hand.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Starkweather," Jace says, shaking his hand.

"And you, Mr. …"

"Herondale. Jace Herondale."

Clary hikes her bag up her shoulder, the unbruised one and turns to leave. She wants to go down to the art department and paint for a little while before school starts. As she reaches the door, Mr. Starkweather calls after her to come back. Pursing her lips she lets go of the door knob and turns back.

"Yes, Mr. Starkweather?"

"Are you okay? Do you need to go to the nurse?" He asks, stepping around his desk. Clary blanches as she hears the question. How does he know? No one is supposed to know. A flash of Valentine's hand cracking across her face flashes in her mind as she tries to compose herself.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Clary says, brushing her soaking wet hair from her face. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Jace steps up to her and studies her face. "Because of the bruise on your cheek," he says.

Clary steps back as the night before last washes through her. She shivers then composes herself. "Yeah, my… brother accidentally opened the door on me. I'm fine really. I'll see you in class," Clary says before dashing out of the room and down toward the basement where the art room is. She stops off in the bathroom first, digging in her bag to find her concealer. The rain washed away some of it from her cheek but thank god it didn't wash away all of it. She wouldn't have been able to pass off the whole of her right cheek turned black as someone accidentally opening the door on her. Only the portion right along her cheekbone was revealed and she quickly dries her face and conceals it before slinking back into the hallway.

She stops at her locker as other kids start flooding into the building. Great, so much for painting. She shrugs off her leather biking jacket and bag, making sure her hair is down around her shoulders to hide the marks going up the back of her neck. She grabs her books for the next four classes and heads back to Mr. Starkweather's classroom to take her seat. It's about five minutes to the bell when she takes her seat in the back by the window.

As usual and to her great relief, no one pays her any attention as they all file in and take their seats. She's pulling out her biology notebook to write down the homework for tonight when someone takes the seat beside her at the two person science table. She looks up to see Jace sitting down and pulling out his own notebook. She avoids his gaze as she scribbles down her homework and the bell rings. Mr. Starkweather stands to begin class on genomes.

"Hey," Jace says under his breath, leaning over toward her. Her throat tightens at his nearness and she leans away.

"Hi," she says, trying her best to focus on the lesson. He's saying something about genetic defects caused by said genomes.

"I'm kind of lost," he says, gesturing down at his blank notebook.

"We all are," Clary says, excluding herself as lost, before jotting down some notes. "Just take notes then look it up on Google when you get home." She scoots away from him and immerses herself in the lesson. Jace doesn't say anything for the rest of the class and when the bell rings he follows her out of the classroom.

She turns around to snap at him to leave her alone but the look on his face stops her. He's studying her with those molten gold eyes. She didn't realize he had gold eyes. They're so beautiful and stunning, what an odd color. She shakes her head.

"You're next class is with Ms. Whitelaw. I have the same thing, I'll walk you there if you want," Clary says hesitantly. She really shouldn't be getting friendly with anyone, not after what happened to Simon when he got too close. She won't let that happen to anyone again.

"I'd love that, thanks. This school really seems like a maze. I'm sure I wouldn't have ever even found the doors if I hadn't almost run you off the road," he says with a laugh. Clary smiles back weakly and gestures for him to follow.

The rest of the day and the other three classes she had with Jace passed quickly and each time the prized empty seat beside her was filled with Jace's presence, per the teacher's orders. All she wanted was to get away, the longer he's with her, the longer he has to puzzle her out. No one else ever bothers with her nor does she want them to. Her brother's come to pick her up so many times and scared away all the people even remotely interested in talking to her away with their tails between their legs. She doesn't mind, anyone who's ever tried to become 'friends' with her aside from Simon has just wanted to be close to the money her father makes.

This golden boy, though, doesn't leave her side. He shadows her the entire day and it's setting her on edge. He doesn't seem like the type to be shy but he's too intrigued by her to go away. She tries to seem boring or uninterested but he won't branch out, won't talk to anyone other than her and she doesn't have the guts to tell him off. The other times she's tried to tell her brother or father off she ended up in her bed for a week. Take that either way. She managed to escape him for lunch, not having a class with him before lunch. She catches a glimpse of him sitting with a group of popular kids, the Lightwoods and their gaggle she thinks, she doesn't keep up with school gossip, during lunch and slinks off to the hidden lunch pavilion that she discovered last year.

She's always out there no matter the weather, not minding the cold that ices her always hot and throbbing body and the canopy overhead keeps her shielded from rain and snow, like it's raining today. The down pour from this morning has persisted, drenching every one of New York's citizens. At the end of the day, after her last class, the only other one devoid of Jace, she heads back to her locker.

Shrugging on her leather jacket and putting the books she needs for homework tonight in her bag. She sticks her hand in her pocket to find her bike keys before she closes her locker and walks out the front doors. She walks past Jace's Aston Martin to her Hayabusa and slings her leg over it, pushing back the kickstand and holding it between her thighs while she pulls on her helmet.

"Hey! Clary!" She closes her eyes as she hears Jace's voice. She flips up her visor as she looks back to see the drowned golden blond. The rain is still pouring and soaking her jeans as he comes up to her bike beside her. "I was wondering if I could come over. I need some help with my classes and the materials. I thought since you were in most of my classes, maybe you could help me."

Clary looks him over, not wanting to give away any of her anxiety. "I-I uh… I don't think my-my father would want me to…" Clary stutters. She knows that she'll get in trouble if she brings a boy over or if she goes over to his place but the look on Jace's face is so hopeful, and enthralling… No, she can't. Valentine was angry this morning and when she gets home she doesn't want to give him any other excuse to get angrier at her.

"It doesn't have to be your place if your dad's home. It'll just be for an hour or two. I could really use the help," Jace says and she's surprised he isn't complaining about the fact that the rain is soaking his designer jeans and jacket, that his perfect hair is getting ruined. The wet curls lie lank and plastered to his forehead, curling around his eyes. He's actually quite attractive.

She sighs in defeat, she could never turn someone down who asked for help. "I'll tell you what, if you can meet me in the pavilion around back at six tomorrow morning then I'll think about taking you home. Bring your books and a sweater, oh and a flashlight."

"I'm quite cute you know. I don't think you'll be able to resist taking me home," Jace says, the smallest quirk of his lips lifting it into a smirk.

Clary scoffs and hides her smile at the truth of his statement. He looks like a wet puppy in down pour. "I'll see you tomorrow morning then?" She asks, thrusting out her hand. She can manage slipping away early tomorrow morning. She's sure Valentine is the one who's going to beat her tonight so she'll be alone through the night. She can get up before her father and slip out to school. She doesn't need to make breakfast for either of the men because Valentine gets breakfast at work and Jonathan doesn't bother waking up before noon most days. She'll set her alarm when she gets home tonight.

Jace clasps her hand and shakes it, a bright grin on his face. "It's a date," he says a little too enthusiastically for her taste. "I'll see you at six tomorrow morning."

Clary releases his hand and flips her visor down as Jace steps away from her cycle. She starts it up and peels out of the parking lot. Driving through New York traffic, weaving in and out with her cycle, she thinks how much she's going to regret this. If her father or her brother ever finds out, she's scared of what they might do to her and to Jace. Her father can conjure up evidence in the blink of an eye to fabricate a case that doesn't exist or he can slap a restraining order on Jace so fast that he'll be dizzy for a week.

But she can't back out now so she'll keep her mouth shut, take her punishment tonight and sneak out in the morning. She pulls into her driveway, under the car port and out of the rain, shutting off her bike before pulling off her helmet. She walks in through the front doors, noticing that her father's car isn't in the drive way and neither is her brother's. She bites her lip in fear of how angry her father will be when he comes home as she shuts the door and dashes up the stairs, dropping her leather jacket, keys and school bag in her room and setting her alarm clock for five thirty before daring to go do her chores.

She walks into her father's bedroom to find it a train wreck. The bed sheets thrown about, his clothes dashed on the floor, beer bottles strewn about the floor. He did this on purpose, making more chores for her to do. She grabs the laundry basket and picks up his clothes then the trash bin to pick up the bottles. She changes the sheets on his bed and throws his clothes in the wash before going into her brother's room.

It's even more of a crime scene. It's a college frat boy's bedroom. She doesn't understand how in three days he can make it this messy. His large bed with its black silk sheets is as messy as her father's. He has pizza boxes and trash thrown about his room. His desk is awash with papers and his computer is still running. His dirty laundry basket in his closet is overflowing and more dirty clothes are thrown on the floor of his closet. He has Gucci bags with folded suits still in them beside his bed.

Used towels lay wet and dirty on the floor, candy wrappers on his desk, coffee cups on the floor beside said desk, alarm still blaring, tissues on the nightstand, bag of marshmallows on the desk and all assorted trash items randomly thrown about. She sighs and grabs a garbage bag from her cleaning supply bucket she hauls with her so she doesn't have to go back and forth to the cleaning closet and sets to picking up all the trash. She finds a match set from a stripper bar and tucks it in a desk drawer. She ends up filling an entire trash bag before moving on to his laundry, using his basket to stuff the rest of his clothes in.

On her way to the laundry room downstairs she dumps the trash bag in the can in the garage. She switches Valentine's load and throws Jonathan's in. She sets the Gucci suits beside the ironing board before going back up to her brother's room to make his bed. The silk sheets glide easily back up and she pulls the comforter taut. She moves over to his desk and sees all the papers scribbled with notes about his case then English, math, economics, and financial classes. She separates out the papers and puts them into his desk organizer based on class. She saves the documents on his computer, closes them and shuts it down.

She throws open his drapes and goes back down to the laundry room. She folds Valentine's load while Jonathan's is drying and his suits are washing. She carries her father's clothes back up and puts them away in the right drawers before she walks into his bathroom. Thankfully, her father usually keeps his bathroom pretty clean so she doesn't have to do anything but her brother's. She physically shivers at the sight of it. She replaces his towels and wash clothes, wiping down the mirror and cleaning up the toothpaste on the counter before cleaning the toilet and shower.

She goes back down to the laundry room and glances at the clock. It's been about three hours before she got home and Valentine should be home in another hour. Folding Jonathan's laundry she takes it back up while his suits dry and places his clothes in his drawers. She lays down on his bed for a moment, noticing only now how much her face and ribs and body hurts. Physical activity usually distracts her from it but when she stops it rises up tenfold. She shifts as she feels a lump she didn't get under her brother's sheets. She pulls herself up and tugs the covers up to find a pair of her lace underwear on his bed. Her stomach turns as she imagines just exactly what her brother was doing with her underwear but leaves his room and returns them to her own laundry basket.

She notices Jonathan made her bed before he left. She smiles at the small act of decency before she brings her own laundry basket down to clean her own clothes. She take her brother's suits out and irons them, hanging them up in his closet before drying her own clothes and putting them away in her closet. She goes back downstairs to see what damage was done to the kitchen.

As soon as she sets foot in the kitchen, she's knocked to the ground by a slap so hard to her already bruised cheek, it makes her head ring. She shakily pushes herself up onto her knees to find Valentine standing menacingly over her.

"Where have you been?" He booms. He's already changed out of his work suit into a t-shirt and slacks. His white blond hair is cropped shorter than her brother's and his broad shoulders bulge against the dark fabric.

"I was at school then I came home," Clary says quietly, her arms shaking as she tries not to collapse in pain.

Valentine kicks her ribs, sending her onto her back. He towers over her, stepping over her to straddle her hips. "Liar," he shouts, placing a booted foot on her stomach and pressing down until she can barely breathe. "I checked the gate entries. You were a half hour late from school. What were you doing? Whoring yourself to anyone who can pay your price? Tell me!" He presses harder and she swears she can hear her rib crack.

"Please," Clary sobs, trying desperately to remove his boot from her stomach. "I swear, I was at school. I swear! Mr. Starkweather wanted to talk to me about the genome project!" Valentine kicks her side again, rolling her onto her side. He fists his hand in her shirt and drags her up off the ground only to slap her down again. She lands with a crack on the tile floor and she wipes away the blood from her split lip.

"Get up slut," he kicks her over onto her back. "Go make dinner, now, and don't be late again," he growls, walking away to the family room and turning on the T.V. She hears the shouts and jeers of the football spectators as she lies there, trying to move to make dinner. The conversation with Jace must have made her late. She can hear the front doors open and close, the faint conversation of her brother and father. She pulls herself from the floor just as her brother walks into the kitchen. She wipes away the blood dribbling down her cheek and uses the counter to steady herself before leaning down and pulling out a frying pan.

She slams it down on the stove top, still wobbly on her legs. She stumbles over to the fridge to pull out the hamburger meat. She has the meat snatched from her hands and set on the counter. She turns slowly, painfully to look at her brother. She doesn't say anything, dropping her gaze and trying to step around him. He doesn't let her pass, blocking her way to the heating pan.

"What do you need Jonathan?" She asks quietly, leaning on the counter as her ribs throb.

"Where were you?" He asks, his voice quieter and so much more menacing than Valentine.

She closes her eyes as she can hear the possession in his voice and it rips fear through her. "I already told Father. I was at school, Mr. Starkweather needed to talk to me about the genome project that's due next Monday," she whispers, trying once again to step around her brother. He grabs her hips and pins her to the counter, caging her in with his arms. He tilts her chin up to force her to look at her.

"I'm not as stupid as Father, Clarissa. What were you really doing," he says menacingly.

"I told you, talking to Mr.-" He cuts her off by slapping her across her cheek. She feels blood well up on her cheek bone. The already brutalized skin sensitive and easily broken open. She keeps her cheek to her brother, her eyes on the floor.

"Don't lie to me, little sister. Where were you?" He growls in her ear, gripping her wrist painfully, causing a bruise to form.

"I was at school," Clary begins and flinches as Jonathan raises his hand again. "Wait," she says, cringing away from him. "I was talking to a new student. They needed help with a school assignment. I was only helping," she says her voice cracking. "I'm sorry I was late. It won't happen again."

Jonathan relaxes visibly but she still doesn't turn her head until he cups her chin and turns her lips up so he can press a chaste kiss to her lips, licking the blood from her split one. "Be sure it doesn't," he says before backing away and grabbing the hamburger meat. He opens up the packaging and sets it on the cutting board. "I want mine medium rare," he says before sitting down at the kitchen counter and pulling out his own college homework.

Clary sets to work on making dinner, quickly cooking the meat and pulling out buns and cheese and condiments. About an hour later around eight, she has her brother's and father's dinner made. She sets her brother's down in front of him as he scribbles away at some legal document and takes her father's to the family room where he reclines on the couch. She hands him the plate and beer before disappearing back into the kitchen where her own food is.

Her stomach turns as she looks at the sight of food and she starts leaving the kitchen to go get her own books to start on her homework but Jonathan grabs her shirt and pulls her back. "Where are you going?" He asks.

"To get my homework," she says and dashing away as soon as he lets her go. She's back downstairs against her better judgment in a moment, sitting down next to her brother and spreading out her books. She doesn't touch her food as she works, she almost finishes when her books are slammed shut by her brother. She pulls back and looks over at him. Her eyes flick to the clock, knowing all her hours are ticking away. An hour's passed since she finished making dinner.

"What?" She asks quietly as he pulls away her books and papers.

"Eat," he says, pulling her plate of untouched food over to her. She sighs and picks up her burger. Finishing it off she pushes the plate away and reaches over for her books, wanting to finish before she gets pulled into the bedroom but Jonathan blocks her, pushing her books farther away. She looks up at her brother with a pathetic look. He just grins at her and tugs her over for a kiss. Her swollen lip throbs in pain and her brother pulls away.

"I wish I could have you again tonight," he whispers and Clary refrains from gagging. He kisses her again, pulling her off her stool and into his lap. His hands circle the places he bruised last night and she gasps. She has to loop her arms around his neck to not fall off his lap but startles.

Valentine calls her into the family room. She slips away from her brother to where her father stands rigid in the family room. She looks to the T.V. and sees that his favorite team lost. Heart in her stomach, she says nothing as Valentine grabs her by her throat and throws her to the ground. She scrambles back, only to have her ankle stepped on by her father. She cries out as he leans over, applying more pressure to her ankle.

He goes down on his knees, straddling her hips. He rips open her button down shirt, exposing her blue cotton bra. He slaps her again. "How dare you look so much like her!" He shouts at her and she knows who he's talking about. He's mad at her because she looks like Jocelyn. He rips her jeans from her, tearing her panties along with them and unzipping his pants. "How dare you look like her when you killed her!"

She turns away and screams as he slams into her. Pain flares around her and engulfs her surroundings. It flows up her body. It feels like she's being torn apart. She screams again as he pulls away. She tries to crawl away but her father flips her over and pins her face to the cold floor. He drives into her from behind, she screams out and his hand cups the back of her neck.

"You're a selfish, idiotic, blind, ignorant little girl and I'm ashamed to call you my daughter," he slurs. He must be drunk but she can't focus on anything as the pain floods her senses. She can feel the blood pooling beneath her, flowing down her cheek and from her lip. It's her fault her mother's dead. She sent her out to get a leaf textured paintbrush. She screams at the pain both in her heart and body. She shouldn't have let her go alone.

She sees Jocelyn's face, holding her and laughing with her youngest daughter. She hears the gunshot and the laughter turn to screams. Just as she's screaming now. It hurts so much, something's driving into her spine. It burns, she can't move. Everything is burning, her limbs exploding in pain. The world blurs as she's flipped over. She can't tell how many more times he hits her but she feels the sweat dripping from his body down onto hers. She feels the absence of the scorching heat between her legs and breathes in relief as her body tries to readjust.

Valentine stands and kicks her in the ribs, shouting how she disgusts him before he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. She lies motionless on the floor, her body flaming and screaming in pain. Between her legs is sticky with blood and her face is hot and bloody. Her ribs burn and her throat is raw from screaming. Her shirt hangs open, her bra torn from her body to bear the cut on her stomach as the one on her cheek bleeds. Her jeans and panties lie somewhere across the dark room. She glances over to the clock to see Valentine has been brutalizing her for three hours.

She doesn't understand how he can do something like that for that long but he does and as she crawls her way out of the family room to the stairs, she's uses the banister to haul herself upright and up the stairs. She whimpers and clutches her side as she accidentally hits her hip on the corner of a side table. She stumbles into her room, closing the door. She falls to her knees as pain racks her body. Dragging herself to her bathroom she pulls herself into the shower, not bothering to remove her shirt, and manages to get it on and close the door.

The ice cold water feels almost euphoric over her burning and aching body. She lays there, not caring it's around midnight. Not caring she has to get up early to meet Jace, just lying there and letting the water soothe her as it pours softly from the waterfall spout in the ceiling. She manages to reach her arms up, her shoulders protesting to run water through her hair. She stretches painfully up toward the bench to get her shampoo and conditioner, letting them fall after they slipped from her reach.

She manages to get her hair washed and conditioned but her body wash, the one soap she actually needs, is too far back on the bench to reach. She closes her eyes in frustration as everything hurts as she musters the energy to move. Flipping over onto her stomach she tries to raise herself up with her arms but they hurt and throb so much she ends up lying on her stomach with her forehead pressed to the soaked tile. She hears her bathroom door open and practically sobs at the sound of footsteps.

"What?" She asks in a weak, wretched voice. "Was three hours not enough for you?" Her shower door opens and someone steps in. She rolls over to find one of the two white blonds standing in her shower in his boxers. He circles to the other side and sits in the water, pulling her up into his lap.

"Oh, baby sister," he whispers in her ear as she leans against him. "Father did a number on you tonight didn't he?" She nods, not really understanding Jonathan's sporadic mood swings when one second he's slapping her and the other he's helping her wash away the blood in the middle of the night. He grabs the body wash and a wash cloth and starts gently scrubbing her body. She doesn't care that he's getting pleasure out of this, just thankful that she's getting clean.

He shuts off the shower and picks her up, both his boxers and her shirt soaked through. He sets her down on the edge of her tub and grabs a towel, handing it to her while crouching in front of her. His eyes roam her body and the various bruises and cuts while she dries herself. He leaves for a moment to retrieve one of her sleep shirts from her closet and to change his boxers. He peels the wet shirt from her and lets her dry herself before he helps her put the shirt on.

He picks her up gently, kissing her temple as he kneels on the bed with her, leaning against the headboard with her cradled in his lap. "My sweet little baby sister," he murmurs, brushing a hand down her arm. She hates how he takes care of her like this. It makes her feel like she owes him something and it disgusts her. "Do you want me to get the pain meds and bandages?"

Clary just nods as he lays her down on her thankfully goose down bed to go retrieve the kit she keeps in her bathroom. She doesn't think she'd ever be able to sleep on anything other than a goose down mattress that molds to her body and cradles it. This is one instant where she's tankful for the money her father provides. She closes her eyes, aware her bottom half is bare, reveling in how good it feels to be lying motionless on something other than the floor. If she lies still now, nothing hurts or throbs. There's a low heat between her legs and a dull throb but other than that, she's fine.

Everything flares up in pain as the bed dips and her brother lays her out so he can bandage her open wounds, just like she did with him when he was whipped. He brushes light fingers over her skin before wrapping bandages over the small cuts and slices on her body. He leaves the on her cheek alone, leaning down to kiss her soft lips. He licks the small cut on her bottom lip before kissing her deeply again. She sighs against her will at the clean feeling sweeping through her despite her brother's compromising touch. She always feels like this after a shower and being bandaged. He gives her two pain pills to dry swallow before returning to kissing her.

But she always feels dirty inside, being used by her father, the guilt that crushes her every time her father blames her aloud for her mother's death. She knows it's her fault and she can't stop blaming herself because she had asked for a leaf textured paintbrush. She knows her brother blames her too, both of them do. Jonathan is just less angry about it because he loves her, in that disgusting, incestuous way.

She doesn't even move as Jonathan continues kissing her lips then her nose and forehead. She's lying horizontal on the bed and her brother lies down beside her, tucking an arm behind his head. Still motionless, she stares up at her canopy as her pain slowly ebbs away. Her brother lies in silence next to her, as she did the many nights he laid in her bed, in pain.

"Do they still hurt?" Clary whispers.

Her brother turns his head and brushes a curl ever so gently away from her bruised cheek. "Do what still hurt, little sister?"

The dark surrounds the pair of them and the moonlight coming in from the window outlines and highlights her brother's white blond hair. "Your whip scars," she replies. She has to move her arms to get more comfortable and it sends a spark of pain through her body. She puts one hand on her stomach and rests the other beside her face.

He gives her a weak smile that she can barely see. "Yeah, sometimes." He turns away then and Clary just closes her eyes, not wanting to move anymore. She feels her brother trace his fingers down her legs after a few minutes and she assumes he thinks she's asleep. He splays his palm against her thigh and Clary forces herself not to recoil in disgust. She feels him press a light kiss to her forehead before he gets up. She thought he left but he's back, covering her with a blanket, not daring to move her.

"Goodnight," she hears him whisper and that damning night flashes back. That one night where she accepted him into her bed because he wanted to have some company through the pain. She hears her door close and she chokes on a sob.

"Goodnight," she whispers to the darkness before she falls into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I apologize. It's been crazy these past few weeks. My teachers decided to bombard me with hundred point projects all at once but do not fear, I am getting back to my stories. I actually just read a review on Last Hope, and I laughed. I'm aware I'm being slow, I hate it when stories take weeks to update but I'm trying. And to reassure you, no I'm not turning in favor of Clace, my profile is going to be mainly Clonathan. I honestly don't understand how my Jonathan's Angel turned out to be Clace but either way, I assure you Last Hope is strictly Clonathan, as well as my next new story that I'm only just writing the first chapter. This story though, Winter Rose, will be Clace, so my loyal Clonathan shippers do not have to read this but I just wanted to explore this specific type of plot line. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die that I will update Last Hope this week. PROMISE! Anyway, those of you who do enjoy this particular plot line and where it is headed, here is a new chapter and Clonathan shippers, I will have the new Last Hope chapter posted this week as well as a new, diabolical debauchery filled Clonathan story posted before Halloween. Love all my loyal readers, Clace and Clonathan shippers alike.

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><p>Her alarm clock blares loudly as she peels open her eyes, her body flaring in pain as she moves to turn it off. Still pitch black outside, she turns on her lamp and slowly makes her way to the bathroom. Turning on the light, she sees her cheek even blacker than yesterday, amazingly missing her eye though and the cut running along her cheekbone is scabbed over. She blearily grabs a container of concealer and wipes it over the bruise, noticing the stiffness throughout her body. She grabs a pill from the packaging she keeps in her medicine cabinet along with an array of painkillers because God forbid she should get pregnant from either her brother or father.<p>

Pulling her hair back in a ponytail, she doesn't bother with any other makeup as she stumbles over to her closet and pulls on a button up blouse, a thick sweater, long underwear and jeans. She grabs her keys, slipping them into her pocket, her bag and her jacket. She slowly makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. She doesn't dare turn on a light as she stumbles over and tries to separate her books and papers from her brother's. Eventually she finds all her homework and books, sliding them into her messenger bag before glancing at the clock. She has ten minutes to get to school.

Slinking to the door, making sure her brother and father are both up stairs, she pulls them open and locks them behind her. She breathes out a sigh as the cold air coats her skin, even through the fabric and cools her bruises that still ache and throb. She slowly and stiffly descends the stairs and moves over to the car port. Ever so carefully slinging her leg over her bike she pulls on her helmet, thanking her customizer that provided extra padding for her face. She turns the key in the ignition and pulls down the driveway before opening the gate, turning on her headlight and heading down the street toward the high school about ten minutes away.

Pulling into the parking lot, she turns off her headlight and bike, putting down her kickstand. She sits there for a few minutes, trying to muster up the will to move but the pain spiking through her body holds her immobile for a moment. She bites her lip, white knuckling her grip on her handle bars as she tries to push the pain down. She knows she's going to regret this, her father or brother will find out she's been with a boy. The retribution he'll wreck on Jace will be nothing compared to what they'll do to her.

She nearly falls off her bike as she hears a man's voice behind her and it sends fear down her spine. "Hey! I didn't think you would show up."

Clary turns, brushing away all signs of pain so not to raise suspicion, to see Jace, striding over to her from his Aston Martin parked across the lot. He has his bag slung over his shoulder and she can see him slipping his keys into his pocket. Not having any more time to recover from her pain, she takes off her helmet, setting it on her gas tank before getting off and taking her keys out.

"Neither did I," Clary mutters. "I didn't think you would show either," she says louder as Jace comes up to her. She tries not to wince as he comes over to her, too close for her comfort. He's standing maybe a foot away, within striking distance.

"Well, I'm too stupid to pass up on a chance to get caught up," he says, sliding his hand through his golden hair. The gray sky as prelude to the dawn is weak and casts the boy's gold hair in a weak, shining yellow and Clary can't help but admire how gorgeous the man is. She wonders what his hands feel like because looking down at them, they seem large and tapered and skilled. She winces as memories assault her and immediately she retracts her thought. She knows what men's hands feel like all too intimately.

She gestures over to the pavilion, hidden by a wall of trees and takes a seat at her usual table she eats at for lunch. Jace follows close behind her, setting her on edge and she sidesteps him to take a seat so she can see the boy as he moves to sit across from her. She begins pulling out her own books so she can finish her homework while she tutors Jace but stops as Jace puts a brown paper bag down on the table. She freezes and looks up at it, eyeing it suspiciously as Jace digs out his own notebooks.

"What's that?" Clary asks skeptically, opening her biology notebook. The streetlights around the pavilion provide enough illumination that Clary can see her notes and the strong planes of Jace's face. She'd think him attractive if her brother and father weren't gorgeous. Gorgeous doesn't mean they're any nicer than what is on the outside.

Jace looks up at her. "It's breakfast. I didn't eat this morning and I assume you didn't either so I got some breakfast at Taki's."

Clary looks back down at her books, flipping to last night's biology homework that her brother prevented her from finishing. "Oh, okay. Um, so, we've been working on a genome project in biology. We have to pick a species and trace back the different mutations of the species. We've been working on it for a few weeks but Mr. Starkweather told me that you can have an extra week since you'll be working with me. I usually don't have a partner and apparently I'm the only free one. So you get to work with me." Clary says that with false enthusiasm.

She doesn't want to work with anyone, doesn't want to have be weighed down by an extra person on her project. It also makes her have to get to know someone closer. All the people aside from Simon have been uncaring and dense. They don't care about her, they don't care anyone but themselves. And judging from Jace's care, arrogant swagger and designer clothes, he's no better. So she might as well get this tutor job over with and go back to staying in the background.

She looks up to find him staring at her and she immediately drops her gaze. "So what do you need help with or don't you understand?" Clary asks, putting down her math notebook and finishing the last few problems while Jace riffles through his notes.

"Uh, um, kind of everything," he says.

Clary smiles to herself as she hears the uncertainty in Jace's voice. She scribbles in an answer to one of her equations. "Be more specific. Pick a subject then the lesson we're studying."

"Uh." She can hear Jace riffling through his papers. "English!" He says triumphantly. "What are we doing in English?"

"We're studying satire. We just finished rereading Animal Farm last week. But other than that, as long as you know what satire is you should be caught up," Clary says, she pulls out her calculator. She punches in a few numbers and writes the answer beside the equation.

"What about biology? I'm completely lost, even with your explanation of genomes and mutations. Explain this to me," he says and Clary has to resist the urge to slap him across the face. He could at least show some manners. She bites her lip before launching into a full length explanation of the genomes and the project she's working on that Jace will now be working on with her curtesy of Mr. Starkweather. The sun begins to rise, lightening the sky as Clary finishes speaking about the biology assignment.

Jace looks somewhat brain dead as he watches her, trying to process everything she said. Clary smiles as she puts her books away. "Do you understand?" Clary says, snapping her bag closed. She still doesn't make eye contact, afraid that he might lash out in some way like her father and brother.

"I don't know, I might need another tutor lesson to completely grasp it. Do you think you could help me with that?"

Clary's smile dies on her face as those words leave his lips. His arrogant ass comments are driving a spike through her spine and driving up her fear level. She doesn't want to be anywhere near anyone else. Jace is just looking for a lay and Clary is _not _the one to go for, at all. But she doesn't think she can do anything, she hasn't been able to stop her brother and father before.

"Yeah, I can ask Mr. Starkweather about a tutor. But I wanted to get to the art room this morning. I'll get back to you on the tutor thing," Clary says, standing from the table. She glances at her watch. It's half an hour before school starts and she doesn't want to be alone with a boy, especially a pampered arrogant boy. She doesn't need to be involved with anyone, she doesn't want to get herself or someone else hurt and she certainly doesn't have time for more morning study sessions. She'll be surprised if she manages to stay awake today.

"Wait," Jace calls after her as she turns away. She pauses and turns back to him. "What about your breakfast?"

She glances to the brown paper bag sitting on the table next to Jace's stuff. It's open and there's an empty plastic container beside it. What does he mean she didn't eat any? He got himself breakfast and didn't offer her any. Why is he asking if she had any earlier? She looks back at Jace with a frown on her face. She tilts her head to the side.

"What about it?" She asks.

"Did you eat anything this morning?"

She knits her eyebrows and readjusts her bag, making her wince as her ribs throb. "No, why do you ask?"

Jace gestures back to the table and she notices a second white plastic box. Her heart does something she doesn't recognize and she looks back at Jace, his golden eyes sincere. Why would he get her breakfast? Why did he even notice her? Why is she the one Jace had to ask for help?

"You-You got me… breakfast?" Clary asks, searching his face. What does he want for it? What is he hoping to gain?

"Of course," Jace says, stepping forward. Her automatic reaction is to step back and turn her face away, bracing for a slap. "It's the least I could do…" Jace's voice fades into an odd tone as Clary looks back up at him, her eyes wide with fear. She can't figure out what he wants, if he's going to hit her. She can't let him know what her family does to her. She'd be ashamed to death for being so weak, not to mention she'll probably get beaten and abused until she's too frightened even talk to anyone for the rest of her life.

Jace takes another step forward and she backs up a few steps. "I have to go," she says, before spinning on her heel and dashing away into the school. Her body burns in protest to her sudden movement as she rushes down the hall and the back stairs to the basement where the art room is. She bursts inside and turns around to lock the door. She leans against the handle, breathing heavily. Her body screams in pain as her ribs throb and her shoulders ache. Not to mention the fiery pain flaring up between her legs as her body feels like it's slowly melting in lava.

She falls to the ground, wheezing as the pain envelops her body. She has to force herself not to scream or cry as she lies still on the linoleum tile. Everything hurts, everything hurts. It's a mantra, repeated over and over in her head. She forces it from her mind and replaces it. _Get up, don't show it. Get up, don't show it. _

Closing her eyes, she pulls herself off the ground and forces herself to walk out of the art room like nothing's wrong. No matter how painful. She climbs the back stairs stiffly and makes her way to Mr. Starkweather's room where he sits at his desk. He looks up as she enters and smiles kindly at her.

"Clarissa. How can I help you?"

"Can you move either mine or Jace's seat?" Clary asks. She needs to put as much distance between them as possible. She can't have him near her. Just something about him… She just can't be near him, for her own safety and his.

Mr. Starkweather gives her a droll stare. "You two are working partners on the biology project, Clarissa. I don't think it wise to have your partner across the room when you need to collaborate. Is there something wrong?"

"Yes. I don't think I'm the best person for Jace to be working with. He needs help to catch up on school work and I'm already struggling myself," Clary says, trying to find any excuse to get her away from Jace.

"I think your 4.0 GPA would beg to differ. You are one of my best students and you are perfect to help a new student," Mr. Starkweather says.

Clary groans inwardly, along with a silent scream as her body lights itself on fire. "Is there any chance you have the contact information of another tutor though? I really don't have time to tutor him sadly." Clary says, keeping her voice light so not to draw suspicion from her teacher. He seems to buy it and looks up the names of a few tutors for Jace in the school that can help catch him up. He hands the piece of paper to Clary just as the bell rings. Clary makes her way to her seat in the back. She didn't get a chance to put her bag in her locker or her biker jacket but she doesn't mind as it provides extra padding for her ribs and other injuries.

She winces as Jace sits down next to her but she forces herself to relax as he turns to her. "Are you okay? You seemed… I don't know, scared this morning," he asks her and she wants to snap at him for his false care. He doesn't give a damn about her nor does she want him to.

"Yeah, I just forgot I had to hand in my English paper before it was late this morning," Clary says, lying much more easily to him than she can to her brother and father. Jace nods his head in acknowledgement, reluctantly accepting her excuse before she turns back to throw herself into class. The day passes quickly and she and Jace fall into a normal routine of her helping him understand the concepts in class. He seems unsuspecting except for his reluctance this morning but other than that Clary relaxes.

She takes her lunch alone like she does every day and finishes off her classes by rushing to her locker and out to the parking lot, wanting to get home before Jace has the chance to talk to her. She throws on her helmet and jacket and peels out of the lot, speeding down the back streets towards her house. Pulling into the driveway, shivers run down her spine, along with pain and fear as she bolts up the stairs and into the house.

As soon as she shuts the door, she's caught up in someone's arms and swung around. She screams in pain and fear and surprise, clutching onto whoever's holding her. She drops her keys to the ground as her fists clench in a shirt. The spinning stops suddenly and she's set on her feet again. She's still clutching onto the person as pain rushes through her at the sudden movement. She's shaking as she can feel the strong hands clamped around hips. She's already shaken from Jace today and now this has her set on edge.

She looks up to see her brother with a wide grin on his face. Oh thank God. Clary breathes a sigh of relief and leans her head on his chest. He's in a good mood, she doesn't need to look forward to a beating from him at least. She can feel the rumbling laughter in his chest as he looks down at her. She pulls back and gives him a droll look.

"What's got you in such a good mood?" Clary asks and is thankful her voice isn't shaking. She checks her watch. "And home so early?"

Jonathan's grin widens as he moves his arms down to her thighs and picks her up. She yelps as her feet leave the ground and she instinctually wraps her legs around his waist along with locking her arms around his neck. He takes care to kiss her unbruised cheek.

"Father's gone on a business trip for a couple days. He won't be home until next Thursday. So little sister, I'm in a good mood because I don't get beaten for a full week and I get you to myself for a full week," he says joyously. Relief flutters in her chest as the knowledge that her father's leaving for a week of his most violent month sinks in. She also understands how much relief and joy is flooding Jonathan. She can empathize with her brother because their father still uses the belt on his back.

Valentine's never been the nicest father but he was a good one before Jocelyn died and still has the conscious to take care of his own and protect them from others even if he doesn't protect them from himself. He's always made sure that they have everything they need but he doesn't stand for disobedience or failure and he just abuses Clary because of his grief. But, even with this news, Clary still feels dread flood her veins. Just because her brother's the gentler of the two men doesn't mean she likes it or wants it anymore. And it's not like her brother doesn't hit her, worse if he found out about Jace…

Any association with men for her is considered trespassing onto his property in her brother's eyes. And his rule: Trespassers will be shot; survivors will be shot again and if still alive, slapped with a restraining order.

"I'm home because I don't have any classes on Friday afternoons. You know that," Jonathan says, setting her down. Clary nods her head, remembering that her brother does in fact not have classes Friday afternoon but doesn't usually come home until late because he likes to go clubbing with his friends. She carefully pulls away from her brother to pick up her keys, wincing as her ribs cry out from bending over.

Clary steps around her brother and slowly, painfully makes her way upstairs. She knows Jonathan's trailing behind her and frankly she doesn't care. Everything is burning and aching and she just wants to lie down and not move on her goose down mattress for at least five minutes. Stumbling into her bedroom, she leans against her desk, throwing her keys and bag on it while draping her leather jacket over her chair.

She takes her sweater off along with her jeans, feeling like the fabric is constricting her muscles and pressing against all the sensitive parts of her body. She limps over to her bed and collapses atop on her back. She groans as everything settles down, her fear and pain draining into her mattress for another time. She closes her eyes, mentally reciting her list of chores to see what she needs to do after she lays here for a little while. Laundry; check. Mopping; ugh, tomorrow. Trash; check. Bathrooms; check. Dinner; maybe later if Jonathan makes her. She never has an appetite during the four weeks Valentine abuses her the worst. Clean the kitchen; check. Homework; check. Wash the vehicles; she'll check later.

She tries to remember if she needs to do anything else but is interrupted by her door opening and closing. She sighs in exhaustion as she feels her brother's hands run up her thighs to the top button of her blouse. He showers light kisses all over her neck and face; despite the actions his care and concern for her with his gentle touches and avoidance of her bruises means a lot to her, even if he is making foreplay to sex with his sister. She feels ashamed as he pops open her buttons slowly, working his way down her body. She used to fight him, used to try and save her dignity, her virginity but it's only ever made these things worse. They're unpleasant as they are but when she did fight her brother, all he'd do is take a pair of handcuffs and chain her to the bed after considerable physical abuse.

He used to slap her, kick her, hit her, he still does but only if she disobeys or upsets him. Valentine does it for the hell of it. She isn't completely compliant though, sometimes, with Jonathan, she resists. But only until she realizes she doesn't really want to be violently raped again, as with her father. She always fights her father because no matter what, he beats her and is always painful. If she doesn't with Jonathan, she can sustain less damage she's discovered but right now, the very thought sex or kissing from anyone, especially her brother, is making her.

She reaches up and grabs her brother's wrists, stopping his progress. She feels Jonathan tense as he raises his head from her stomach where he was laying gentle kisses over one of her old scars. She doesn't know what has her brother so interested in her. Her body's ugly, scarred and bruised. Her stature is nothing to gawk at, small and short and scrawny with some muscle definition. Her freckles make a freaking dot-to-dot drawing map on her face and her red hair is always a mess. She honestly doesn't know why he bothers.

"Clarissa," he growls in warning.

"Please don't," Clary whispers meekly, opening her eyes and looking up at him above her. "I just want ten minutes to myself. Please," Clary begs, hating she's been reduced to this.

His black eyes flash in anger and Clary recoils from the ferocity of it. That look was what he wore when she'd slapped him away the very first time, right before he took her down and chained her to his bed to rape her. That look is why she doesn't resist much against her brother. When he's angered, he's almost worse than her father. Moving faster than she can track, he's reversed the grip on her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her body is now stretched out underneath Jonathan's, her legs and feet bare and her shirt fallen open to expose her blue cotton bra.

She whimpers in fear as Jonathan sneers at her. "You've had the whole day to yourself, little sister, and I'm feeling very edgy. Care to push me?" He says, his voice deceptively soft, his nose millimeters from hers. She tries to sink into her mattress but it hurts too much. So she resorts to trembling beneath her brother. She still finds it amazing how quickly he can change the mood of a room from gentle and playful to menacing and have her shaking in her boots.

She shakes her head. "Can I at least take a shower?" She says dejectedly. Jonathan audibly growls and pulls her off the bed. She yelps as he slings her over his shoulder and carries her to the bathroom. "Put me down," she yells, anger making her voice high and loud. She can't remember the last time she yelled. She's screamed but not outright shouted at someone.

Jonathan sets her down in the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it, slamming her against the wall. She cries out as it hits her ribs. He's caged her in with his arms, pinning her against the wall. She turns away from him, flattening herself against the door. She's shaking, trembling as she keeps expecting her brother to lash out at her. She screams as she feels him grab her chin. She tries to push him away or get away from him but he pulls her toward him and slams her back against the door, wrenching her face around to look at him.

"Just calm down," he shouts. Then quiets his voice. "Calm down. I won't do anything to you yet, okay?" He cups her face and holds her still. She stares at him, her heart pounding and her chest heaving. The pain and panic build up in her chest, tightening her throat. Jace can't find out about what happens to her, he can't get too close. He'll be disgusted and tell everyone else. She'll be forced into exile of the social classes involuntarily instead of residing there comfortably as it is. She'll be beaten by her father so horribly she won't be able to move for a solid week. And her brother will keep her locked in his room not only to add to the abuse but to humiliate her more as he goes on a possessive tirade.

She tries to shake her head as tears pour over her cheeks, four years of pent up emotions all come boiling over, pushed up by some British exchange student that can't tell a genome from a leaf. She hasn't cried since her mother died, even with all the beatings and rape. She's never shed a tear over it but now, it's just too much. She doesn't want to be here with her brother or father, she doesn't want to be here without her mother, even if it's in a plush, lavish mansion in the upper district of New York.

They pour over and sting her cuts with the salt. Her brother slips his arms around her waist and pulls her close. She tucks her face into the crook of his neck, linking her arms around his shoulders. Her breath catches and Jonathan strokes her hair. She clamps down on the tears, pulling away from her brother. If she's going to cry, she'd rather do it alone not in the arms of one of the causes of her problems. She moves to retreat back to her room but Jonathan reaches up and slams the door shut, locking it.

"You said you were going to take a shower, little sister. Let me help you relieve some of that stress," he says and that care in his voice is back. That brotherly protection that he's always showed her but the way and execution has changed. He truly wants to help her relieve her stress just not in a clean way. He steps back from her once she's stopped struggling. She might as well just let him have what he wants so she can go to bed early and try her best to sleep. "Take your blouse off," he says quietly, his voice filled with lust and she can see the restraint he's showing. He won't be able to last the night.

Clary reluctantly shrugs off her blouse that hangs open around her shoulders. It pools on the floor and she hugs her elbows across her blue bra, keeping her eyes on the floor. "Now your bra," he says, still keeping a distance from her. He turns to flip her shower on as she release the front catch of her bra and lets the straps fall from her shoulders. She cups herself to hide her breasts but Jonathan turns back toward her. He approaches slowly, like approaching a cornered animal and hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs.

Clary can feel her blush all over her body as Jonathan strips and slowly nudges her toward the shower. She really doesn't want to do this but her body is still too tender and in too much pain to risk being hurt again. Her brother shuts the shower door behind her and grabs a wash cloth before lathering it with her body wash. He starts by turning her and washing down her back, lightening his touch as he skims the bruises down her spine.

He kneels behind her and washes the backs of her legs. He gets them lathered rather quickly, not having an injuries to avoid, and slowly stands, running his hands over her sides. He runs it over her shoulder blades, stepping closer to her and resting his chin on her shoulder. She's still covering her chest with her hands and arms, not welcoming the lusting stare her brother gives her as he turns her around. She looks up at his face so she doesn't have to look at _him_. He gently pries her arms from her chest before he slowly savors the sensation of washing her.

"Why the sudden burst of shyness, little sister? You've never hidden from me before," her brother says, dipping his head down beside her ear as his hand travels lower over her stomach. She winces slightly as he skims her ribs but other than that, he takes care not to hurt her… yet.

"I just don't feel like being you're prostitute right now," Clary murmurs and doesn't flinch as she gets the slap she was expecting.

"Don't ever say something like to me again," he grits through his teeth. Her head is still turned to the side from the slap but she can still imagine the look of anger on her brother's face. Her comment though has the desired effect as he throws the cloth at her feet and exits the shower. She bends down to pick it up and wash the rest of her then conditions her hair and steps out.

After she's dried herself, she throws on a loose shirt and sweat pants before collapsing again on the bed. Her cheek throbs but she just rejoices in the silence of her room. That is until her door is thrown open and she's wrenched from the bed by her upper arm. Her eyes fly open and she's met with a sullen Jonathan. She can practically taste his irritation, not that she gives a damn at the moment.

"What?" Clary asks snidely and yelps as he digs his nails into her bruised rib.

"Don't you dare take that tone with me," he hisses before releasing her side. "Get your shoes on, I have a football game." He shoves Clary away before crossing his arms over his chest. She coughs in pain before stumbling over to her desk where she threw her shoes and pulls them on. She slides into her leather jacket. Spilling her school books on her desk, she throws her iPod and sketch book in her bag.

"Can I drive my bike?" Clary asks over her shoulder.

"No," is his curt answer.

She replaces her keys on the desk before turning back to her brother who takes her upper arm, already bruised and aching, and drags her downstairs. After locking the door behind him he practically throws her down the stairs and tosses her into the passenger seat of his Corvette. She adjusts herself to get more comfortable in the sports car as her brother gets into the driver's side and takes off out the driveway and onto the street toward his college where a home game is going to be played tonight.

After pulling into the parking lot an hour early, just as all the players are supposed to, Jonathan shows her to the box where a nice couch has been set up with a T.V. to view the game, along with the large windows to watch the game from above. A snack bar is set up in the corner. Jonathan shoves her in.

"It's a shared box, here's some cash and remember that I have the car keys and security on call if you wander off," Jonathan says before leaving to go change and warm up with the other players starting to file out on the field.

Clary throws her bag down on the coffee table and collapses on the couch, loving that her brother is the star player and has access to the most lavish boxes in the stadium. She sinks into the couch, reaching over to pull out her iPod and earbuds, turning the music up high and going to sleep instead of watching her brother's stupid football game.

She wakes up an hour later to the sounds of the crowd starting to pour in for the game. She pulls out her earbuds and winces as she turns to place her feet on the ground. Her ankle is still sore from being crushed last night even though she made it through school. Slowly standing, she walks over to the windows to observe the people pouring in to watch her brother play. She can see her brother in his uniform, warming up on the field with the rest of his team.

She can see the scoreboard being setup and tested, the red numbers flashing randomly. The bleachers are almost completely full. Clary moves over to pick up the remote for the T.V. to turn on the game. They're just starting intros as she turns it to ESPN. The announcers are rattling on about the players and their stats as Clary sits down on the couch with a hand full of pretzels from the snack bar.

They've just kicked off when the door to the box opens, spilling in a family of five. All beautiful black hair, tall and slender and stunning. The mother looks like she doesn't want to be here, the father, completely overly enthusiastic. They have three kids with them, two, sadly, she recognizes form school. The Lightwoods, Alec and Isabelle. Alec's a senior with ridiculously blue eyes and Isabelle is the school's girl clique queen. They have a little boy with them around eight or nine who looks exactly like Alec except with square glasses on, the kind that Simon used to wear.

"See I told you we wouldn't be late," the little boy says, flouncing over to the windows and sitting in one of the chairs to watch. The Lightwood's all file in, leaving the door open for the last person she needs to see at the moment. Jace. His gorgeous golden curls are messy and completely stunning. His molten gold eyes scan the room as he closes the door behind him, locking onto her as he sees her. His face lights up with a beautiful smile that actually warms her heart with his enthusiasm at seeing her.

He doesn't say anything as the father of the Lightwood's comes up to her, sticking out his hand. "I'm Robert. I presume you are who we're sharing this box with?"

Clary stands from the couch and shakes his hand cautiously, nodding. He's a big man, barrel chested and broad. One that looks capable of cruelty but is too excited to be at the game to show it. "Yeah. I'm Clary, my brother's on the home team."

A strangled noise comes from the little boy over by the window who jumps from his seat and shoves his father out of the way, staring energetically up at her. He's seems wired, like he's on a candy binge. Way too much sugar. "Really? Who's your brother? Is he good? Does he play a lot? What are his stats? How many touchdowns does he have?"

Clary tries to respond but his questions buzz around in her head, confusing her. She doesn't know anything about football despite her brother playing it.

"Uh…"

Jace steps in front of her, saving her from answering. "Wow, wow, Max. Don't give the lady a heart attack with your football mania. I kind of need this one," Jace says in front of her and Clary is stunned into silence. No one's ever needed her and how can a man she just met need her? Max, the little boy, starts questioning again but Jace silences him and turns back to her. He stands over her, making her crane her neck and his beautiful golden eyes sparkle, making warmth, completely separate from her pain, blossom in her chest.

"If I might ask to shut my brother up, who is your brother?" He asks in the sweetest baritone she's ever heard. She hadn't noticed it the two days before, too determined to keep her secret hidden and drive him away but listening to him now, it seems to soothe something inside her.

"Jonathan Morgenstern," she says, quieter than she'd wanted to sound. She clears her throat, shaking her head as she turns back to the couch. "I'll just… um, go… over here." She bows her head and retreats to the couch where she puts in her earbuds and pulls out her sketchbook.

She's completely absorbed in her sketches, loving that she gets to sketch again. She hasn't sketched in months. This is Jonathan's first game of the season so she hasn't gotten personal time. She delves into the sketch and before she knows it, she's created a sketch of an apple tree, the blossoms blooming before the apples come in. She flips to the next page and starts on another sketch. She closes her eyes, trying to figure out what to sketch. Something floats to the forefront of her mind just as Imagine Dragon's Nothing Left to Say Now comes on.

She starts to draw planes and angles on her page. She doesn't really see what she's drawing, listening to her music and the cheering crowd as someone scores a touchdown. She nearly jumps as Jace settles down next to her. He stretches out, leaning over toward her. He pulls out one of her earbuds, gently, not like Jonathan would do.

"You didn't have that yesterday," Jace says, eyes gliding over her face. Usually she'd feel dirty under that kind of gaze, one that searches and admires but Jace's makes her blush. His shirt pulls taut over his arms, exposing well defined muscles as her eyes wander.

"Didn't have what?" Clary asks in a slightly wistful voice and she recoils from herself. She doesn't want to be attracted to anyone. All the men in her life have betrayed her and hurt her. She doesn't need another one.

Jace lifts his hand to his cheekbone and brushes a finger over it. "The cut on your cheekbone. I saw the bruise on Thursday but the cut wasn't there. Did your brother, the all-star quarter back with perfect hand-eye coordination, nail you with a door again?"

Clary's chest tightens as she raises a hand to her cheek. She feels the slight scab spanning her high cheekbone. She keeps a straight face, trying not to panic as she lets her hand fall back to her lap. She forces confusion onto her face. "I don't know actually, I was painting earlier with acrylic mixing knives," she lies. "I could have cut myself then."

Jace looks doubtful and Clary's anxiety builds before he continues in his lovely baritone. "What are you doing there?"

Clary looks down at her sketch book, only just realizing what she was sketching and snaps the book shut as her eyes widen. "Sketching," she says, stowing it in her bag before scooting farther away on the couch. Jace's proximity makes her nervous, especially with his arrogant air. Arrogance exudes from both her brother and father. Look where that got her.

"Have you painted long?" He asks cocking his head to the side as his eyes wander down her neck. She reaches up to let her hair down, brushing it over her shoulders to cover her neck. She still doesn't know how many hickeys from Jonathan or bruises from her father are left on her neck. She doesn't want to allow anyone to chance seeing them and start asking questions.

"My whole life," Clary says quietly, remembering how her mother bought her the first art set she ever owned. That got her started her on her entire art career. She'd made her decision to go to Liberal Arts College and get her art major. But she'd become a lot less enthused about art college after her mother died because of that very thing. She rips her gaze away from the golden boy sitting beside her before grief decides to slam her into the wall.

"That's pretty impressive," Jace says beside her. "May I see?"

Clary's head snaps up to look at Jace, confusion laces its way through her mind. Why would he want to see the doodles of a teenage girl he just met? It's not like they're anything special, at least to him but her sketchbook is like her diary. And it has too many incriminating sketches about herself, brother and father. If Jace or anyone ever saw her sketchbook, they'd look at her with disgust and revulsion for what they do to her. Her sketches aren't straight up pictures of what they do to her, but if you have an active imagination and can interpret well enough, you'd be able to figure it out pretty quickly.

Her sketch book holds all of her memories, of before her mother died, after and all the times in between. She always dates them so she knows what happened when. She has one sketch, one of her first sketches that depicts her family going to one of Jonathan's junior high football games. It shows from Clary's point of view with Jonathan's football game in the corner of her eye while she looks sideways at her parents cheering her brother on. On the field you can see Jonathan scoring his first touchdown, waving the ball around like a lunatic on high. It's crude but still decent enough to tell what it is. No, she can't let Jace see her sketchbook, it would be the death of her. So Clary smiles shyly at Jace, shaking her head.

"No, I don't think I'm good enough yet," she says, watching the look on the fair haired boy's handsome features. She tilts her head to study him more closely. He's beautiful in an artist's eye like hers. All his features are perfectly sculpted with his high cheekbones, straight nose, rounded golden eyes. His curls fall in his face like a messy toddler's but still manages to frame his wonderfully strong jaw and lush lips.

"One day then," Jace replies a smile curving his lips. Something flutters in her stomach at the look but she shoves it down, not willing to let Jace get a reaction out of her.

"One day," she repeats, turning back to the football game on screen now that she can't sketch with Jace sitting beside her, almost too close for comfort but he doesn't elicit the sense of fear she gets from her brother sitting too close. Even when she knows he isn't in the mood to hurt her, he always has this intimidating air that curls her stomach sickeningly. The feeling Jace puts off is almost as scary as her brother and father's, just in a different way.

"So what are you doing after this?" Jace asks and she wishes he would just shut up and stop trying to pry into her personal life. It's stringing her nerves along a barbed wire fence and electrocuting them. She shifts uncomfortably as her brother seals their thirty six point lead with another touchdown.

"I think my brother might throw a party at our house after this. I'll lock myself in my room and try to tune out the raging music blasting the plaster off my walls," Clary says and combs her hair forward to hide more of her neck. She can feel the heat of Jace's gaze on her hands as they move stiffly. She can feel her body aching with pain and something else.

"Do you want to escape said noise and come over to my place for dinner? Or we could study or work on homework or the project if you want," Jace says and Clary stiffens, making her sore muscles coil and protest.

"I can't. I need to make sure my brother doesn't do anything stupid after his third tequila bottle," Clary says, not wanting to lie to Jace. It's true that her brother usually does something stupid after drinking but it's usually to her.

"You sure? I could come keep you company," Jace prompts and Clary's cheeks flame in desperation and intrigue. She needs to stop his questioning and if Clary dares to bring a boy home Jonathan will personally skin him then beat some 'sense' into her. Jonathan would take great pleasure in claiming his territory by skinning Jace, tanning his hide and mounting his head on the wall above their fire place.

She's touched, actually, at the gesture Jace is making, enough that she smiles a genuine smile and turns toward Jace to see his hopeful look. "Yes, Jace, I'm sure. Thank you though," she says before standing from the couch and grabbing her bag. Jace bolts to his feet, standing with her.

"Where are you going?" He asks, stepping aside to let her walk to the door. The rest of the Lightwood's are standing over at the window watching the game. But Isabelle turns around to find the pair walking toward the door.

"Hey Jace, stop drooling over shorty over there and come watch the game," she calls, unaware at how deep that kind of insult cuts Clary. Clary's smile drops as she beelines toward the door. Jace's head snaps up to say something to Isabelle but she's already slipped out the door. She holds back tears. The insult, despite how insignificant it is, tears at her conscious. Her father always degrades her for her looks because of the similarity to Jocelyn so she's developed an aversion to her looks. It's what causes her abuse and therefore anything, comment or insult, to scrutinize her after the many insults she's received from her father, sets her on edge and cuts at her soul until she can barely stand.

She weaves through the crowds of the football game, hearing the half time and the crowds thicken. Her chest tightens as she makes her way to bathrooms, the noise deafens her, swallowing up her thoughts as she pushes through the crowds, her small, petite frame always going unnoticed. She'd originally gotten up to go buy a snack but her appetite's gone. She slips through the people, trying not to make contact with too many people as her body flares up in pain, both physical and emotional.

Jonathan is the only one she's known not to insult her looks. He's the one who always comments on how beautiful she is, how her freckles beguile him. He always tells her that her hair is like a flame or the color of a sunset. One night when he was drunk he told her that she's the most beautiful woman he's ever laid eyes on. That just makes any comment, positive or negative, not have a good effect on her. She shoves into the bathroom, just before the half time crowd can get here to create a line, and locks herself in the first stall. She leans heavily against the wall, her body slowly melting in pain, wanting to collapse and sleep.

Leaning her head against the wall, she bites the sleeve of her jacket to muffle the scream of pain. Her breath heaving she's thankful that the noise of the stadium drowns out any other noise along with the crowd of women now milling around in the bathroom. Isabelle's words shouldn't bother her, no one from the popular cliques ever bother her but she feels extra sensitive from this afternoon and her brother's treatment. It's more degrading than usual. She doesn't dare sit down on this disgusting petri dish of a bathroom floor that reeks of hamburgers and pure football mania so she leans against the only slightly less testosterone drenched door.

She doesn't know how long her body radiates pain or how long her legs shake but the crowd dissipates for the next half of the game, leaving the bathroom completely empty. She finally lets out a whimper as between her legs throbs painfully. Jonathan's drunkenness tonight won't help that either. Drunk Jonathan equals rough Jonathan but at least when he's sober he makes an effort to be gentle. It hurts enough to make her reach a hand down there to clutch herself as the throbbing subsides. She's on the verge of tears by then, her breath coming in pained squeaks as she resists the urge to sink to her knees and scream.

She sucks in her breath and bites her lip as she hears the door open and close. Her muscles coil and stiffen as she hears the click of a lock. She closes her eyes and slows her breathing, withdrawing her hands from the pain between her legs and bracing them on her thighs.

"Clary?" She hears Jace's deep voice echo in the empty bathroom. Her muscles stiffen even more as she doesn't move an inch. "Clary, I know you're in here. I can see your boots. Will you come out please?" She looks up to see Jace's hand on top of the stall door, like he's leaning against it. "I'm sorry for what Izzy said. She's been lashing out because her boyfriend broke up with her. She thinks the world revolves around her and begs to grovel at the toes of her studded leather heels."

Clary smiles a little at Jace's comment but it makes her cheek ache. She presses her burning hand to it, sending more flames up her cheeks so she removes her hand like it's setting her skin on fire. "Izzy didn't mean it, Clary. Please can you come out?"

Clary reaches behind her and unlocks the latch. She's still leaning against the door so when Jace tries to push it open, he throws her forward, her weight completely unnoticed by someone who looks like he lifts weights with elephants. Before she can fall forward, Jace's hand closes around her upper arm and she has to use every fiber of her bruised body to not scream as he grips one of her many bruises.

She falls against Jace's rock hard body and she can't help but admire how toned he is. His other arm come around her waist to hold her up, pressing his biceps against her side. Despite her body's injuries, he feels good pressed against her. So much so that she instinctually melts against him, none of the threat from her brother or father evident in Jace's stance. He's merely holding her. But she knows better, no one wants her for anything other than an outlet and she's already got two barbed plugs dug into her.

So she pulls away from Jace, using the last little abused shreds of her willpower to keep herself upright and straight faced. No one's touched her without a reason to causes her harm. She drops her gaze, bowing her head.

"What do you want Jace?" Clary asks, noticing how he's pinning her in the stall. She can't get around his hulking mass of handsome muscle. Her heart rate spikes and not just because she's trapped by a bulging mass of power.

Jace braces his hand on either side of the stall, leaning down toward her face to catch her eye. "I wanted to see if you were okay… but I don't think you were ever okay to begin with," he says in a soft voice that seems to caress her cheek even without him moving his hands, his golden eyes so sympathetic he could get the devil himself to be compassionate.

Clary's eyes snap up, staring straight into his molten pools. "What is that supposed to mean?" Clary asks defensively, wanting to back up but is stopped by the close confines and fish killing toilet.

"I don't know," he says leaning down. "Would you like to tell me?" His nose is inches from her face. Her bravado fades immediately at his proximity and the looming way he towers over her. Heat washes over her and his eyes flick to her lips, lingering then moving back up to her eyes. Fear rushes through her, images of her brother and father doing the exact same thing flashing before her eyes.

"No," she says, her voice small and timid. "I wouldn't. Can I go watch my brother win the football game now?"

Jace immediately backs down, stepping away from her so she can step out of the stall but he gently takes her upper arm to drag her to a stop. She turns but he just walks her against the wall, bracing his hands on either side of her. He tilts his head to the side and leans down to catch her gaze she's lowered.

His British accent laces his voice and makes her shudder with need. "Clary," he says softly. "I just want to help. Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong Jace," Clary says, wrapping her arms around herself in a visceral act to protect her body. "I need to go."

Jace looks disappointed in her as he reaches down and takes her hand in his, turning it palm up. She tries to pull away but Jace holds her tight as he flicks up her sleeve to her elbow. The skin is clear, it being her right one because Jonathan and Valentine always grasp her left wrist when they're doing something to her. The one that is bruised and marred, she holds behind her back, out of Jace's reach. He looks up at her, confused.

"Nothing's wrong Jace. I told you. I want to go finish the game now please," she whispers as Jace releases her wrist and she turns the sleeve down. Her face is turned down, away from him and he brushes her hair away from her neck, realizing that he was staring at her neck earlier, bruises probably still marring her usually perfect skin.

"You're a terrible liar, you know," he says gently, careful to keep any threat out of his voice and with his British accent, he's definitely coming close. "Because unless these are some nasty hickeys, I would definitely say something is wrong."

Clary shudders with fear and desire as Jace leans closer so she can feel his breath across her skin. She lets out a long breath through her mouth. "Tell me what's wrong," Jace whispers and she can feels his lips brush over her cheek, her bruised cheek. Jonathan's advances have never made her feel the raging fire that's setting off her hormones before but just Jace's proximity is curling desire and heat off of her aching skin.

"Jace," Clary whispers, her chest tightening. She turns back and her lips brush over his. She freezes realizing what she's doing. She can't do this, if her brother ever found out she'd never be allowed to be alone ever again. Let alone sit in a shared box during his football game. Ice pours through her veins with the realization and she ducks out of Jace's arms, heading for the bathroom door and quickly unlocking it. She steps out into the thinned crowd and rushes back to the box, hoping Jace won't confront her in front of the Lightwoods.

She walks over to the windows, where Max and Alec are sitting on one of the couches. She settles down on the far side, away from the two boys and far away from Isabelle. The game's coming to a close when Jace comes back in. She can feel the hair rising on the back of her neck when he comes to stand behind her. She can feel him cross his arms over his chest and his gaze flit down to her every few minutes as her brother scores the winning touchdown and half the stadium shoots to their feet, shouting cheers and encouragements. Robert, Alec and Max all shoot to their feet as well as her brother's teammates run over to congratulate him.

Jace remains silent as the boys and man beside her chatter excitedly before gathering up their stuff and filing out the door. Isabelle and her mother stand, chatting about something and Clary stands to leave with them, planning on going down to the parking lot to wait for her brother, so she doesn't end up alone in the room with Jace. He doesn't say a word or make a move to stop her as she melts into the crowd. Her ribs and core burn as she descends the stairs to the parking lot.

The columns of blazing light illuminate the dark parking lot like it's the middle of the day and she finds the V.I.P. parking lot where her brother's Corvette is parked. She sits on the hood, not caring that her brother would yell at her and pulls out her sketch book. She flips over to the sketch she's started in the box but had stopped because of Jace's prying eyes. The shadow of Jace's features are illuminated by the pool of lamplight her brother's car sits in.

She fills in the lines and angles but she can't get his face right, it looks like it him but it's just not… right. She irately flips the book closed to find the parking lot mostly empty except for the players' cars in the V.I.P. lot and her brother walking toward her with a bunch of his teammates, girls hanging off their arms by the dozens. She slides off the car before her brother can see her sitting on his precious baby.

"Ah," Jonathan shouts as he walks up to her, the rest of the team going off to their large, luxury SUVs and snazzy sports cars. "My little sister." He wraps her up in a bear hug and swings her around before setting her down. Arms still around her shoulders he turns back to shout at his buddies, Sebastian included. "Hey, don't forget the party at my place later." He turns back to her, holding out an arm toward the passenger side. "Shall we?"

Clary climbs into the car and revels in the fact her brother's in a better mood. He smiles over at her before gunning his car after his teammates and to their house. He goes first and opens the security gate to the raging populace of football drunken maniacs gathered behind Jonathan's Corvette. The circle driveway is big enough to house the entire fleet of luxury vehicles of the football team and the street quickly lines with cars of invited guests and general populace who would like to get drunk and noticed by the home football team.

Clary exits the car as fast as her body can possibly take her before the crowds can crush her. Austere in her movements, she makes her way up the stairs just as their state of the art sound system begins to blast trance music and rattles the very walls of the mansion. She looks back as the doors are flung open to let the pour of bulky football players then the drunken herds in. Screams and shouts sound from the main floor and Clary turns around to continue up the stairs. The pounding of the music echoes through the house and causes a headache to sprout through the back of her head.

"Clary!"

She pretends she didn't hear her name being called because she doesn't want to deal with anyone and continues up the stairs.

"Clary!" The shout comes again just as she reaches the top of the stairs. The lights of the house are shut off and replaced with the colored and strobe lights installed throughout the large mansion. Someone catches her by the hem of her leather jacket and drags her to a halt. She spins quickly, ripping the hem of her jacket out of the large agile hand of Sebastian Verlac.

"What do you want Sebastian?" Clary asks, taking a step away from his large, hulking form.

He smiles down at her. "Aren't you going to join the party Little Red?" Sebastian asks, leaning against the railing and staring down at her. She hates the nickname Sebastian's given her. She doesn't know why, just does.

"I have homework to do Bash. Unlike a college football all-star like you," Clary says, resituating her bag on her shoulder then turning around to walk to her room. Sebastian catches up to her and matches her short stride easily.

"Oh, c'mon Clary. Surely you have the whole weekend to do it." She notices that he keeps his hands shoved into his pockets and is grateful he doesn't touch her because for that she would have to coldcock him and tell her brother. Then her brother would most likely skin his linebacker and mount hide on the wall next to Jace's if Jonathan finds out about him.

She gets to her door and turns on the linebacker. "I have a project due so no, I can't. Tell my brother to drink some tequila for me," she says before entering her room and shutting the door on Sebastian. She makes sure to lock her door, the only time she does is when there are giant hordes of drunken college boys partying in her house.

Leaning against the door, she tries to muster up the strength to make it to her shower but she can't get past the burning in her core. Her nails scratch the door frame as it dies down enough for her to make it to the bathroom and strip her clothes. She flips on the hot water and watches it fall from the ceiling waterfall spout. There's still dried blood on the tile floor and she uses her toe to rub it, and the memories that go with it, away. She does a measly wash job due to her pain but makes sure to not scrub too harshly down there.

Stepping out of the shower she wraps a towel around herself and sighs as she realizes that if she can bear the bass line of the trance music, she gets to go to bed early and undisturbed. She pulls out her medical kit, planning on bandaging her wounds but there really isn't anything she can do for them so she slides it back under her counter and walks to her closet where she slowly and gently pulls on baggy sweat pants and a short sleeve shirt.

Collapsing onto the bed, letting out a yelp of pain drowned out by the trance music, Clary buries herself under the covers, trying to fall asleep to the hypnotizing thumping of the music the partiers downstairs are listening to. Unsurprisingly, she eventually passes out from the pain, feeling the drum line pulse through her body like Valentine's hand cracking across her skin.

She wakes in the middle of the night to pounding. At first she thinks it's her body or the trance music that's still blasting but no, there's a fist slamming on the door to her bedroom. She drags herself out of bed, her body complaining all the way and over to the door. She should've been able to sleep in tomorrow. With Valentine gone and it being Saturday, plus Jonathan's all night rager probably leaving him too drunk to get up before one, she could've slept in, gotten up around ten or eleven, made herself breakfast, relaxed and recuperated before her brother woke up and demanded she nurse his hangover and clean up the party mess. She still has that to look forward to. Waking up all the drunken, hollow bodies and kick them out of her house. Whoopee.

She unlocks her door, bleary eyed but ready to coldcock the offender, when her brother's lips slam down onto hers, tasting of beer, vodka and hard whiskey. His arm snakes around her waist while the other stretches back to slam her door shut and lock it. He leans back against it, his balance inhibited by the insane amount of alcohol flowing through his body. At least he's responsible at his parties, his rule is if you drink, you sleep over or call a cab. Most people sleep over, wanting the chance to stay in a football all-star's mansion for the night and sleep in one of the forty thousand spare bedrooms they have. Though most of those are taken up by the rest of his football team and their whores- sorry, _girlfriends._

Jonathan is too drunk to stand on his own two feet, so he leans heavily on her door as his hands clumsily pull up his shirt and discard it on the floor. Her body throbs in expectation of pain caused by movement and touching in general. Though he's coherent enough to have a light touch, unable to avoid her bruise and cuts because her entire body is essentially one big bruise so he settles for stumbling forward, pushing her back toward her bed. Her knees hit the bed and she falls backward, catching herself on her elbows as her brother follows her down. He kisses her throat, drawing at the already tender skin as he hastily undoes his belt buckle.

He hoists her up on the bed, unlooping his belt from his jeans. She closes her eyes, trying not to scream in frustration or struggle against her brother. She knows what he's going to do, he does it on and off because apparently it turns him on to see her restrained and helpless beneath him, he did it all the time the first few months when he had to and has obviously developed a liking for it. Taking her lips again, he grabs her wrists and lifts them above her head. Taking his belt, he loops it around her wrists and re-buckles it tightly so she can't move her hands.

She pulls against the restraint, months of being held down and forced in to, washing over her, causing her breath to shorten as Jonathan drags her sweat pants down her legs. She can feel the leather biting into her already bruised wrists, warm liquid starting to trickle down her arms. She continues straining against the belt as Jonathan strips her panties with his teeth. Despite the routine of this and her mind screaming at her not to struggle because it will only make it worse, she lets out a whimper of distress as she pulls her wrists down to her face to see better.

She closes her legs and squirms away from her brother who was just about to lean down and lick her thighs. He looks up, anger blazing in his eyes, and surges forward, catching her against the headboard and pinning her bound wrists on the wall above her head. Her breath is short and panicked but she won't cry, she's past that. She tries to kick him away and he sneers, forcing her legs apart with his knees and pressing her back against the head board.

"Don't defy me, sister. You wouldn't want me angry would you? I can hurt you just as badly as father and you know it," he whispers darkly in her ear, making her breath catch in her throat. "Don't make me hurt you. Be a good little girl, sit quietly and don't move. Got it?"

His teeth scrape against her throat and she has a fear of him growing fangs and sinking them into her jugular. She whimpers once more, trying to shrink away from him but she just nods. He continues ravishing her neck while he ravages her body, jerking down his boxers and thrusting into her. He body screams out in pain, pain from last night and the violence wreaked on her body. He goes slow as Clary cries out in pain with the first few thrusts. His free hand comes up to cover her mouth, muffling her whimpers and cries but he starts moving in such a way that it isn't too terribly painful, not pleasurable but not horribly painful.

He raises his head from her neck, drawing out of her slowly and pushing back into her until he's buried hilt deep. Clary's head is angled away from his but she looks down out of the corner of her eye to see her brother staring at her with a satisfied, totally drunken look. His muscular hand still covers her mouth, stifling the few cries her body issues when the pain becomes too much and his other hand still has her wrists pinned above her head on the wall. She draws deep breaths through her nose, trying to stay conscious through the pain as her brother bucks his hips, throwing his head back in a moan before dipping down and pushing up her shirt with his nose to suckle her right breast.

The only slightly enjoyable thing being done to her, despite her disgust, makes her moan softly. Jonathan hears this and removes his hand, moving his hips slowly, minimizing her pain and amazing her that he's still lucid enough to consider her pain/pleasure level. He keeps licking and sucking at her breast, making small bouts of pleasure surface through the pain and soft, quiet moans escape from her lips. His hand that was previously on her mouth is sitting on her hip, jerking hers forward to grind her pelvis against his. She holds back tears as the hypersensitive, bruised skin rubs against Jonathan's hard body.

He stops suckling her breast, making the only source of pleasure and the only thing sort of working her through the pain disappear and letting her shirt fall down, to reclaim her lips in a gentle, yet somehow forceful, kiss, lifting her onto his lap to further penetrate her. Her skin twinges painfully in her core, still ripped through from Valentine, and she yelps into her brother's mouth, tearing away from him to lean her head back against the wall as she tries to stifle the pain. Jonathan lets out a deep groan as he releases, making her sting.

He withdraws from her body, pulling her wrists down from the wall and laying her flat on the bed. He pulls her shirt up her body until it's stretched over her eyes so what little visibility she had in the dark room leaves. She's stretched out, bare naked before her brother and bound up without sight. Her body shudders in fear at what he will do to her, every touch shocks fear through her like electrical currents as her brother gently touches her body.

He starts by lightly tracing over her ribs, scaring her almost mindless with pain and fear then over her quivering, bruised stomach before gently running his fingers over her cleft. She starts to shift and pull at the belt again, desperate to get away from the feeling of absolute helplessness but the moment she does, her brother growls, removing his gentle touch and replacing it with a bruising hand on her hip and wrists as he holds her down.

"What did I tell you?" He snaps, his nails digging into her side. She arches up, crying out as she tries to escape the pain but her brother's hand holds her pinned to the bed. She's panting through her teeth, struggling to stay conscious through the pain. If she passes out, he'll just wake her up again even angrier. He grabs her chin and turns her face towards him despite the shirt blocking her vision. "What. Did. I. Tell. You?" He punctuates every word fiercely, his grip on her chin and hip tightening painfully.

"Stay still," Clary whimpers, trying to pry her jaw loose but his grip holds fast.

"And what are you going to do?" He asks, his voice surprisingly clear for being drunk.

"Stay still," she whispers, before he lets go and returns to gently stroking her throbbing core. Him and his bipolar mood swings. She'll never understand them. She settles back on the bed only to arch up again as he licks her sweet spot. His lips press against her gently, still eliciting sparks of pain but not terrible ones. His tongue dips into her before deliberately massaging her clitoris. It still hurts but small bubbles of pleasure well up inside her. She whimpers through it, feeling disgusted and degraded. Through the pain it take almost an hour for Jonathan to work her up to an orgasm. At least when she climaxes it temporarily washes away the incessant pain radiating all over her body. She tries to draw it out as long as possible, disgusted that her brother can do this to her, but all too soon she falling back on the bed, strength and consciousness bleeding away from her.

She feels her brother collapse beside her and immediately his soft snore echoes through her head. She dully registers she's still bound and blinded but doesn't have the strength to try and get loose. The world slowly slips away, not that she wants any part of it if this is her life.


	3. Chapter 3

Bonjour lovelies! How are you? This chapter is shorter than the res but that is because it's very dramatic. I'm sick the A/N isn't going to be very long 'cuz it's giving me a headache but I hope you enjoy the chapter and thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and views and continued interest in my dabblings. Enjoy the chapter.

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><p>Clary wakes to a sore body and bleeding wrists. She'd pulled against her brother's belt in the night, making fresh blood trickle down her arms and stain her white sheets. She moaned in pain as she rolled over, her shirt falling down to give her some visibility. The clock said it was around nine and her brother must have be out cold. That bastard left her trussed up. Was she going to have to wait until he wakes up to get unbound and start cleaning up his mess? Hell, no.<p>

"Jonathan," Clary said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and spun around painfully to find her brother sprawled on his stomach, asleep. She managed to sit up, her shirt falling down completely, allowing her to have some decency. She brought her wrists down, shaking his forearm with her bound hands. He didn't even twitch. Sighing, she painfully maneuvered her leg up and kicked him over. He groaned, shifting around before one eye opened to a slit and narrowed at her.

She presented her wrists. "Untie me," she stated sternly, knowing he wasn't feeling well enough to do more than glare and even then pathetically. Lifting his arm in a great show of effort, as though it was made of lead weights with elephants standing on it, he flopped it over onto the belt binding her wrists. His clumsy, slow fingers managed to undo the belt buckle before he passed out again. She slid the belt off, rubbing at her wrists before pulling on her underwear and pants.

Irritated, not sure why but why shouldn't she be, she left her bedroom. Despite her bruised and battered body, she wanted to clear out her house of all the drunks before they get up and around and try to solicit shit off of them. She finds people passed out in the foyer like dead bodies. Her hair falls forward into her face as she flings open the double doors that somehow, amazingly, managed to get closed. Nudging people with her feet and yelling at them to get up and get out, she slowly progresses into the house, through her living room, family room, dining room, kitchen before the sea of passed out drunks stops abruptly at the locked up wings of the house. Jonathan always cordons off the majority of the house, concentrating most of his drunks in the front rooms where it's easy to clean. She can at least thank him for that.

Just as she's getting the last of the people out of her house, who aren't the football team, residing in the guest bedrooms, she sees a familiar head of golden blond hair bobbing across her lawn from the open security gates. Dread settles in her stomach. She must look horrible, her hair must be all frizzy and messy. There are probably bags under her eyes. She's in her sweats and a sleep shirt, no bra… wait, what the hell is she talking about? She doesn't have any concealer on and her arms are bare, not to mention her bloody wrists.

Before she even has time to close the doors, he's up the stairs and staring down at her. She quickly hides her wrists behind her back, trying not to look guilty under Jace's scrutiny. He has a smile on his lips that melt her insides and she wants to run away to hide in a corner because of it. Jonathan might come down at any moment, despite the unlikeliness of him being coherent before two. Then what, how would she explain this? Or one of his teammates tattles on her?

"Jace, what are you doing here?" Clary asks as Jace shoves his hands in his pockets and his smile wavers slightly. "How did you know where I live?" This isn't good, this isn't good; she ducks her head, trying to conceal the fingerprint bruises that must be showing on her chin. If her father finds out, or her brother. Oh god, he might be on the security footage. She's going to have to break into their security room and delete it. She needs to get rid of him.

"I saw your bike parked in the driveway yesterday. I live a couple houses down so I sort of followed you home," he says his lips quirking up as though he made his own little joke. Anxiety at the moment is preventing her from doing anything other than wishing for him to go away, though he isn't the worst thing to see first thing in the morning after what happened last night. "I came over to check on you. You ran off last night before I could finish what I was going to say."

"And what was that?" Clary asks, her voice short and curt, hoping she sounds rude to push him away. _Leave, for both our sakes. _ Jace leans down, his smirk seeming to take on a sharp edge and Clary instinctually takes a step back.

"I want to know who hurt you," Jace says, reaching up and brushing away the curls covering the bruised cheek and her most likely bruised chin. She gasps and turns her face away, cringing back and squeezing her eyes shut. She can feel Jace brush his fingers over her cheekbone. Her hand snaps up and she grabs his wrist to fling his hand away and slam the door but he reacts like a crack of lightning. His other hand comes up and closes around her forearm.

She tries to pull away but Jace holds her fast, looking down at her wrist with sympathy and anger. She can see the emotion sparking in his golden eyes as his thumb brushes over the fresh wound. It looks like a bloody bracelet, trails of it stained down her arms, making it look like a gruesome tattoo. Her other hand is still held behind her back but Jace takes his other hand and draws it out from behind her. He holds her wrists in his hands like they could break any second.

"Clary," he breathes, wiping some of the dried blood away with his thumb. "Who did this to you?"

She snatches her wrists back, reaching up pull her hair forward over her cheek. She closes one of the doors but Jace reaches up and flattens a palm against the second one. "I only want to help, Clary. I'll protect you, you just need to tell me who from."

Clary shakes her head, falling back from the door but he loops an arm around her waist, pulling her up to him so her front is pressed against his delicious heat. "Clary," he says almost sternly. Her heart speeds up, making every sensitive part of her body throb. She wonders all of a sudden what it would be like to have Jace caress those parts, to kiss them and lave her skin with his tongue. She shudders at the thought.

He leans down, his nose grazing her neck before she jumps out of her skin at the sound of someone clearing their throat. She pushes Jace away and turns to find Sebastian, half naked with a cup of orange juice standing in the hallway from the kitchen. He stands with a closed expression, orange juice lining his top lip.

"Sebastian. How are you vertical this early?" She asks and she can feel Jace's gaze boring a hole in the back of her neck. His fingers brush aside her hair to find one of the bruises from being thrown to the floor lining her shoulder blade to the base of her neck. She pushes his hand away from her back.

"I only had a few drinks unlike your brother and the rest of the team. Who's he?" Sebastian says, jerking his chin toward Jace's figure standing behind her. His lip curls slightly, as though he's trying to hide it, and he takes another sip of his orange juice.

Clary opens her mouth to respond but Jace cuts her off, stepping through the door. "I'm her project partner. For biology. I just came over to exchange some notes with Clary. I'll see you at school Monday," he says, slipping something into the hand behind her back. The brush of his fingers on hers sends a jolt up through her body as he touches the circular wounds on her wrists from the belt one last time before leaving.

"See you," Clary calls after him, turning to shut the door, completely amazed at the ease with which Jace saved the situation. Sebastian's always been a tattle tale for her brother, so if he sees something that Jonathan wouldn't like, Sebastian is damn sure to tell him, unless Sebastian's the one doing it. Once she turns back she gasps; Sebastian's moved forward to stand only a few inches away from her.

"He really just your project partner?" Sebastian asks, doubt lacing his voice. The heat radiating from his bare chest is sickening as she takes a step back to put some space between her and the team linebacker.

"Yeah, our project is due on Monday," Clary says, stepping around Sebastian and heading toward the kitchen to grab a garbage bag, stuffing the paper in the waistband of her underwear for later inspection. He follows her closely, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. He doesn't say anything as he sets his cup down and grabs a trash bag. Clary doesn't dare look at him as he helps clean up the bottles and trash left by the party. They manage to fill seven trash bags to the brim.

Dumping them outback, Clary's neck prickles as she's hyperaware of Sebastian trailing closely behind her back into the house. Shutting and locking the back door, Clary turns to the linebacker, who stands with his back against the kitchen counter. His naked torso is distractingly pale though not bad looking and she tries her best to look everywhere but at his bareness.

"I have to go nurse my brother's hangover," Clary says shortly. "I take it you won't be needing a baby sitter who's four years your junior?" She crosses her arms over her chest, protecting her braless breasts.

"I don't know," he says with a smirk. "I might still be a little tipsy myself. I may yet need a nurse as well."

Clary scoffs, resisting the urge to curl her lip. "If you can stand there, drinking your juice that you got yourself I think you can take care of yourself," she says, walking past him towards the stairs. She yelps as his hand closes around her upper arm, pulling her to a stop.

She turns to him, finding his face much like that of her father or brother right before they're about to go on an angry tirade, wherein which she is usually the outlet of their anger. She jumps back, tugging her arm from Sebastian's grasp and backing away.

"I—uh… Sorry," he says, frowning before stalking off with his glass of hopefully alcohol free orange juice though Clary wouldn't put it past any of the team to spike their early morning OJ. That is if any of them bothered rolling out of bed before noon.

Clary sighs with exasperation. At least today will be a quiet day, even if her brother is passed out in her bedroom. She slowly stumbles up the stairs, finally letting all her pain and panic poru through her like burning acid, eating away at her. What is Jace going to do? What if he tells someone? Her father will kill her, so will her brother. Not to mention what they will do to Jace. She can't let that happen, but how will she discourage Jace? How can she deny the physical proof of what he saw? He saw the belt marks, the bruise on her face, on her back. You can't just explain that to someone, can you?

She reaches her bedroom to find her brother, somehow awake, propped on his elbows, squinting against the light pouring into the room from her windows. He sees her and immediately snaps at her, pointing to the windows.

"Close those, now," he orders, covering his eyes with a large hand while she half limps over to the thick wall of curtains and draws them across the windows. After the room turns from glaringly bright to softly glowing with the little rays of sunshine leaking in under the curtains, her brother reclines back on the bed, throwing his arm out to her. "Come here."

Biting her lip, careful not to scream at him or let the shame show, she bows her head submissively and shuffled over to the side of her bed Jonathan is taking up. She can see the faint bloodstains on her sheets from her wrists, now crusted and dry.

"Get under the covers," he commands and though Clary knows he can't do anything to her if she disobeys, she will not be risking the chance of his retaliation when he is fully sober. She reluctantly peels back the covers, sliding onto the mattress and in immediately enveloped in Jonathan's suffocating arms. She tries to control the pounding of her heart, the rush of her blood as images of last night and all the other nights she remembers where Jonathan's or her father's arms have wrapped her up and made her defenseless. She hates how they've turned gestures that are supposed to be of love or affection or are supposed to represent safety into menacing, frightening gestures that always dredge up flashbacks.

Only they're not flashbacks, for that would mean she has other memories, happy memories she can turn to in times of distress. They aren't flashbacks because those nightmarish scenes, the constant terror and pain she experiences every time her brother or father get close, when any man or anyone gets close, those feelings are her life. She lives in pain and fear, has lived to deal with it and will not let it crush her, even if she has turned into a submissive little puppet for her father and brother. It is only her sense of self-preservation that keeps her from fighting back anymore.

Her heart is in her throat now and she knows it's an irrational feeling, that Jonathan is in too much pain to do anything, but the steel bars of his corded, muscled arms press in around her, cutting off her air, reminding her of darkness and screams and pain; pain she still feels now. She closes her eyes, burying her face in Jonathan's chest, trying to remember when this gesture, having her brother's arms wrapped around her, had made her feel safe and protected. She tries and tries but Jonathan and Valentine have tainted those memories for her, all her childhood joy and affection has now been injected with the poison of her father and brother's cruelty.

She can't breathe, she can't think, cringing painfully into her brother, trying to soothe herself, pressing against her brother's warmth, struggling to remain calm over something so silly but that warmth turns into acid, burning her skin, her throat. It makes her still bloody wrists throb in pain, the junction between her legs alight with pain and utter discomfort. Her breath catches in her throat and she's clenching her fists against Jonathan's chest, fighting the building scream in her throat, a scream that's voiced itself many a time, always useless.

Jonathan, even in his drunken state seems to notice her stress and sighs. He kisses her forehead softly, lingering, his lips a burning brand on her skin before releasing her from his grasp.

"Why don't you go shower," he says, his voice strained and pain clearly laces his syllables. Clary wants to cry with relief and scream at him for showing care when he caused half the distress in her mind but she only nods shakily and pushes almost frantically away from her brother, running to the bathroom on unsteady legs and slamming the door, though not daring to lock it.

She turns on the shower, ice cold in an effort to blow away the acid crawling under her skin, the painful fire burning away her nerves between her legs. She quickly tears off her shirt and pants, feeling as though they are her brother's fingers, her father's mouth, making her skin crawl. She makes it into the large stone and glass stall, the water falling in cascades from the ceiling but she can do nothing when her knees buckle. She's shaking so badly, not even having realized how much Jace's visit had shaken her until now.

It had dug up her worst possible memories, afraid that Jace might be able to read them on her face, know what her family has done to her. She's terrified he'll tell someone; that he'll go to the police. She isn't so much scared for herself as she is for him. If her father finds out, she'll not only get the beating of her lifetime for even daring to _talk _to a boy, let alone tell him what Valentine had done to her, but as state attorney, he'll ruin Jace's life, _utterly._

She curls her knees into her chest, rocking back and forth, forcing the tears back. She won't cry, she won't cry, she won't cry. She repeats it like a mantra, trying desperately to figure out what she'll do. Maybe she could tell him she accidently got hit with a football? That would explain her bruise on her cheek but what about the one on her back, her wrists? She could say she's clumsy or she accidentally put on bracelets too tightly or they weren't filed down.

No! He'd never believe that. What is she going to do? She can just completely avoid Jace and hide her injuries better. The only reason he saw them was because he came to her house and she wasn't prepared but now, she'll be more careful, put on extra concealer, wear baggy clothes and just avoid Jace altogether. She buries her face in her knees, beginning to hyperventilate. Her chest tightens and her heart jumps to her throat.

She barely hears the stumbling crash, the door to the bathroom slamming open, the stall door reverberating with the sound as it's torn open and she being shaken by strong hands.

"Clary! Clary! Look at me Clarissa! Breathe! Slow deep breaths do you understand? Slow, breathe," Jonthan shouts, his voice fading to a calming mantra as he turns off the shower and pulls her shivering naked body up against his. This time he keeps his legs splayed for her to sit between, his arms loose around her waist so she doesn't feel trapped but he still presses her into his chest, forcing her to listen to his heartbeat, to the rhythm of his breath and match it.

"Slowly, breathe. Deep breathes. You're alright, just breathe," Jonathan repeats, over and over in his hypnotic voice until Clary's finally on the verge of unconsciousness. "You're alright baby sister. You're alright."

Clary feels him shift then a warm compress touches her wrists, wiping away the dried blood and then she's being lifted from the frozen stone tiles, half awake. She hates that her brother goes from tying her up with a belt and raping her while he's drunk to washing her, soothing her and now bandaging her wrists. The soft white cotton of the bandages is cool against her somehow still burning skin and it amazes her that Jonathan has the ability to even see through what must be a killer hang over headache. He carries her back to the bed and gently lays her down, climbing in beside her, careful not to trap her but still close enough to be touching her.

She's too tired now to let the horror of her memories that one touch elicits affect her, instead she lets it wash over her, consume her until her world is nothing but the horrors of her childhood, the taking of her virginity, the relentless beatings and rape by both her father and brother. But thankfully, mercifully, some god takes pity on her and steals away the last of her consciousness so she's falling into bleak empty blackness, her last thought: Thank God it's empty. That way, nothing can hurt her for a while.

The weekend, thankfully, had been uneventful, other than the party. Sebastian didn't appear to have told Jonathan about Jace and Jonathan decided to just keep her in bed, whether he was there or not. While he went out to send off his football buddies the next night, for they'd stayed the entire day, he tied her loosely to her bedposts with one of her scarves. But he spent most of the weekend in bed with her, pleasuring himself and her, seemingly making up for his drunken mistake the night before. Clary let herself fall into the pleasure Jonathan was giving her, blocking out that it was her brother or that she hurt terribly everywhere, especially where Jonathan was touching her, but she didn't say anything, only resigned herself to being tied down and used. Sunday had been no different, Jonathan only letting her up to go make dinner.

Mercifully, he spared her that night, even if he'd shown no mercy during the day, but at least she got her bed to herself. Lying in her big, empty bed, now clean with fresh sheets and rid of all scents of sex and Jonathan, she can't help but dread the next day, strategically planning out the steps she would take in the morning to conceal every hurt and pain and mark, and to avoid Jace, completely if possible. She can't let him get any further, she can't be around him anymore and it broke her heart that it had to be that way. Looking past all the anxiety and nervousness of her secrets being found out, she had actually enjoyed her time with Jace, he'd been kind, made her laugh, bought her breakfast. No one ever bought her breakfast and she certainly hasn't laughed in years.

She eventually got to sleep, only to wake up three hours later to her blaring alarm. She heaved herself painfully slow from her bed and dragged on a baggy sweatshirt over her loose cotton t-shirt, abstaining from the use of a bra, finding the rib constricting band and shoulder straps painful on her already battered body. She tugged on some jeans before going into her bathroom to drape her hair around her face and neck after applying enough concealer to shock a clown but not so much as to draw attention to her face, which was the last thing she wanted to do.

Jonathan was nowhere in sight as she left the house, pulling her motorcycle out from the garage, her leather biker jacket snuggly fit over her sweatshirt. It was nowhere near dawn as Clary started her bike turned on the headlights and headed out the gate toward the school. She makes sure to get there a good thirty minutes early, pulling into the almost abandoned parking lot. Buses won't be here for another ten minutes and people who drive don't bother showing up until five minutes before the bell.

Locking up her bike, she carries her helmet to her locker, throwing her biker jacket in as well before closing it and hurrying to Mr. Starkweather's room. She knocks as she opens the door and Mr. Starkweather looks up with a smile.

"Ah, Clarissa. How may I help you this morning?" He asks kindly and it grates on her nerves.

"Um, Mr. Starkweather. I know that Jace is my project partner, and yes we've finished the project, I have it right here but through the duration of this project I've found him to be a distraction. And what I'm trying to ask politely is that he be moved to another seat, one preferably not beside me," Clary lies, desperate to find any means necessary to keep Jace as far away from her as possible.

Mr. Starkweather sits back in his chair, tenting his fingers and looking concerned. "Well, Clarissa, I'm glad you came to me about this but, and do not think I am ignoring your complaints or disregarding them in any way, but I have not seen, at least in my class, Jace demonstrating any disruptive behavior."

"Sir," Clary says, searching for an excuse. "He, uh, he is nosy and arrogant outside the classroom and I'm not comfortable working with him anymore."

Mr. Starkweather purses his lips, as though he can sense Clary's deceit but he eventually nods. "Alright Clarissa. I'll move him, thank you for bringing you're concerns to me." He turns back to his paperwork.

"Thank you Mr. Starkweather," Clary breathes in relief before retreating to the art room to work on her painting for the next thirty minutes.

Up until eighth period everything was fine for Clary. She huddled in her back corner desk, silently watching as the other students file in and take their seats, watched as Mr. Starkweather pulled Jace aside as he walked into class and gave him a new seat beside one of the high school cheerleaders that have repeatedly gone after her brother, Kaelie Whitewillow. She'd kept her head down every time she saw Jace scanning the room but thankfully the snotty cheerleader kept him distracted most of the time. That brought her a little relief, knowing the most popular girl, and probably most attractive, would keep Jace's attention.

The rest of her classes were uneventful, the other three classes she had with Jace; she managed to produce an excuse for the teacher to move him. As the seventh period bell rang, signaling the beginning of the last period of the day, she could fell the exhaustion and restlessness of the entire student body, waiting to be let loose and go home or party or go screw their whores in a closet somewhere, oops, she means girlfriends.

As she was on her way to her last class, cringing away from every person threatening to brush up against her, she was utterly startled and shot through with fear as someone grabbed the belt loops of her jeans and quickly tugged her into a janitor's closet. She couldn't stop the gentle click of the door closing or the engagement of the deadbolt in the door. Before she knew it she was shaking, shrinking back against the door but strong, gentle hands, pinned her in place, stripping her of her bag and sweatshirt. Her arms immediately fly to her chest, preventing her shirt from being stripped from her and her eyes catch the glint of bright golden ones, glinting at her.

Somehow, Jace turns the light on, soft and dim in the small janitor's closet. Her shirt, a flimsy scrap of fabric, does almost nothing to conceal her bruised arms and chest from Jace's gaze. She makes sure to at least hide her wrists under her arms, unbandaged and adorned with thin lines of dark red scabs, making two sets of double bracelets on her wrists.

Jace's fingers brush over a bruise on her collarbone. "Oh, Clary," he whispers and his hand pushes the shoulder of her shirt away to reveal the big ugly bruise covering her left shoulder. Clary quickly pushes her shirt back up, self-conscious of how ugly she must look, mismatched colors and ugly red lines. She can feel the heat of Jace's body brushing up against hers, so close in the small confines of the closet. Only then does her fear take over.

She's locked in a small closet with a man. The other times that has happened has never been good for her. Her heart rate speeds as images of past encounters speed through her mind, shortening her breath and constricting her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, turning away from Jace.

"Please," she half sobs. "Just leave me alone."

She flinches as she feels Jace's fingers over her cheekbone, the cut and bruised one. His other hand comes up and cups her face, turning her slowly to face him. Her eyes fly open, her green eyes wild and terrified as they stare up at calm, sad gold ones.

"You need help Clary. Let me help you," he whispers, his thumbs providing for her a cool breeze over her skin, brushing back and forth ever so lightly.

"You can't do anything. It's safer if you just forget about me," she replies miserably, her heart sinking at how wonderful Jace's hands feel on her face. She would have expected the dreaded caged feeling she gets from her brother and father but Jace's hands are purely reassuring, caressing and caring. It's scary to her that he can be this way.

Jace leans closer, causing Clary to back against the door, her spine throbbing and pressed flat against the wood. His golden eyes are intense, burning like molten gold. "I can't let this continue Clary. It's against my nature. Let me help." His eyes flick to her lips then back to her eyes. "You're in so much pain, Clary. I can see it in your eyes and I want to know who hurt you. I can only see a few injuries on you but I suspect there's more. Am I correct?"

His wonderful, warm eyes flick over her body, as though seeing straight through the fabric. The thought makes her shudder. Clary slowly, reluctantly nods, not understanding why she's answering. Jace nods in acknowledgement, leaning down to brush light fingers over her bruised shoulder. Though is not what made her jump, it is when Jace pushes aside her shirt and presses his lips to her swollen, sensitive skin. He kisses her shoulder, lightly softly, tracing his tongue around on edge of the bruise by her collarbone.

Her breath leaves her lungs in a burst, and she leans her head back against the door. She can feel the memories rising up to destroy her feeling, the ecstasy building with every swirl of Jace's tongue. She represses a sob, her hands coming up to twist in Jace's golden hair, his hands braced against the door, careful not to touch her. She's torn between shoving him away and holding him closer.

"Will you tell who made this?" Jace whispers, his voice velvet seduction, his lips moving up her shoulder to her throat, to her bruised cheek.

Clary, trembling, shakes her head, pleasure bursting through her but above it, fear, coloring her vision with the horrors of past lips, past hands, past dark places, all of the her present and future fears. Jace ducks his head back down, pulling on her shirt to deepen the V of the neckline. He kisses down between her abused, unrestrained breasts and Clary suddenly blushes, remembering she didn't put on a bra. He gently licks on long red line over top the swell of her breast and she shivers, halfway to sobbing.

"Please," she cries out softly. "Please stop." She hates the desperation, the fear in her voice as she pushes against Jace, her hands having retreated from his hair to his chest. She's shaking, shaking all over with fear. Her legs are rubbery as her father's furious face flashes before her eyes.

Jace, hearing the fear in her voice, withdraws from her immediately, his golden eyes flashing at her. She recoils, snatching her sweatshirt from the ground and holding it against her as though it will shield her from this man's touch. She can't quite seem to catch her breath as she looks up into Jace's gold eyes. His face is expressionless but his eyes speak volumes as he seems to sort something out.

"Clary," he says her name like a prayer and a plea. "Clary, please tell me what's happened." His British accent is thick, betraying his deep concern. "Please tell I'm wrong and you weren't put through what I think you've been put through." He's begging her now.

And now, Clary can see what he's figured out. With her affliction to his lips on her when other girls have surely melted under the pleasurable assault. No sane, innocent girl recoils from such skilled lips as Jace's. He knows she's been used, by some man thankfully because he can't know that it was her father and brother. She's practically hyperventilating now, tears pouring down her cheeks. Shaking her head frantically, she pulls her sweatshirt over her head, grabbing her bag and reaching for the door but Jace slams it closed just as she manages to unlock and open it.

She tries to melt into the wall, this weekend flashing before her eyes; Jonathan slamming the door, restraining her with his belt, being violated. She can hear her father's shouts ringing in her head, telling her she's worthless. Feel the harsh blows to her body, the ripping and tearing as he raped her. Her whole body is trembling now, tears running hot and unchecked.

What if Jace does that to her? What if that's why he's got her trapped in the closet? She lets out a strangled cry, sinking to the floor of the closet and pressing herself against the door, sobbing. "Please, please just let me go."

She feels Jace sink down next to her, brush a strand of her red hair from her face. "Clary," his voice is soft, talking to a frightened, cornered animal. "I'm not letting you out of this closet until you tell me what happened. I'm not going to hurt you, I only want to help."

Clary's head snaps up, her green eyes flaming and glistening. "You can't help Jace. Stop trying because you're the one who's going to get hurt. Don't you understand? I'm bad news, just stay away from me and you won't get hurt!"

By some miracle or shot of adrenaline she shoots to her feet and tears open the door, bolting down the empty hall, eighth period already in session but she doesn't head toward class, she heads towards the nurse's office. She can't, no matter how badly she wants to, just leave school property. That would cause the school to call her father or brother and she'd be in trouble at home; she's not allowed to be sick. So she slinks into the nurse's office, her face red and tear streaked, adding credibility to her act of a horrible headache. The nurse quickly grabs her an ice pack and tells her to call someone to pick her up.

She picks up the phone, only pretending to call her brother before smiling at the nurse and saying that her brother's out front to pick her up. The nurse waves her off, telling her to feel better and Clary slips out of the nurse's office then takes off at a run towards the parking lot.

She takes off on her bike, ignoring street laws and not getting in trouble because the police are terrified to issue even a speeding ticket to the district attorney's daughter. She's home in record time, locking up her bike in the garage and barreling into the house. She nearly screams as she bumps into her father.

She backs up against the door, composing herself in an instant, a survival tactic she'd been forced to develop. She scrapes her hair back nervously, straightening out her backpack. She keeps her eyes down towards the floor, quickly wiping tears from her face.

"Father, I didn't realize you'd be home. I thought you were on a business trip. Did you want lunch?" Clary asks, thankful her voice is steady.

"No, Clarissa, I already ate. And I had to come home for a few hours, I'll be leaving here in a moment. Why are you home early?" His voice is business like, calm, not angry like he usually he is when he gets home.

"I tried to finish off school, father, but I got a nasty headache and asked to be sent home. It's nothing, I'm fine but is there anything I can do for you before you leave?"

She nearly yelps as his fingers, not harsh but not gentle, grip her chin and turn her face up to his. She watches his face, cool, analytical, distantly fatherly, like the father he used to be can be seen buried under his uncaring, abusive, grieving self that has grown over her old wonderful father.

"Would you like to tell me what happened, Clarissa?" His voice is still removed.

His silvery blond hair is styled in his usual lawyer style. His immaculate suit doesn't have a crease in it but his eyebrows are creased as his black eyes, like Jonathan's, stare down at her, removed.

"I only hit my head, father. I got a headache, the nurse sent me home, I'm fine now," she says calmly, refusing to pull away from her father, knowing it will only enrage him despite his calm façade.

He nods his head, releasing her chin. "The house is already clean. Go up to bed and rest until Jonathan gets home. Go on," he says, turning away from her and plunging back into the house with his daughter staring after him. She slowly makes her way to her room, careful not to trip on the stairs, she can feel her body burning and aching, and not all of it is from pain. What Jace left behind is starting to scare her, she shouldn't be feeling like this towards someone, _a man _of all things when all the men in her life have caused her pain and suffering, why should Jace be any different?

She slowly closes her door, staring at her bed in amazement. She'll actually get to sleep now, Jonathan's classes don't end until seven. Her shoulders slump, body aching, burning, throbbing and her bag drops to the floor, her shoes are off, then her jacket, her pants until she's in her underwear and sweatshirt and she falls into bed, out before her head even hits the pillow.

Clary wakes to fingers stroking the back of her neck. She resists the sudden urge to sigh and arch her back like a cat. Rolling over, she finds Jonathan lying on her bed, watching her as she slept. She frowns and glances over at the clock. Her eyes widen as she sees it's eight o'clock. She actually got a solid six hours of sleep.

"Sleep well, little sister?" Jonathan asks, leaning over to brush his lips against the side of her neck. She quells the need to slap him away, not wanting to elicit any anger from her seemingly calm brother. She tries to move but finds everything sore, sore and bruised. She moans in pain as she swings her legs out of bed, nodding her head to her brother, still groggy and slow.

She attempts to stand but her legs hurt so much she can't find the strength to get up. She plops back on the bed, covering her face with her hands, her legs dangling off the bed. She feels her brother loom up over her, but not really caring she just lies still, trying to absorb the pain pulsing through her. Jonathan's lips brush her nose before his weight disappears from the bed.

Minutes later, her brother was scooping her from the bed, cradling her against his naked body. Clary nearly groans in exasperation. She doesn't want to do this, not now, she's too tired, too stressed, too desperate to just end it all. She's done with life, if things like this continue happening, and Clary doesn't see an ending in sight, she doesn't want to continue living in this torture. But she can't do anything as her brother strips her and lowers her into a tub of scalding hot water.

She moans aloud as the delicious heat soaks into her aching muscles. The water moves from her breasts to her shoulders as her brother steps into the sunken bathtub. Jonathan pulled her close to him, her back facing him and Clary still hasn't bothered to open her eyes, feeling sealed shut. His calloused, tapered fingers pressed into her muscles, the tight, sore knots of muscle, right outside of her bruises. The pleasure of it nearly outweighed the pain, nearly.

It felt good yes, and by the time her brother was done she felt so much better, but her body was hypersensitive as well as her mind and everything _hurt_. She turned off the feeling of pain, withdrawing into herself as her brother's hands wandered over her body, causing pain and pleasure. She was barely aware of his hands, his body the pleasure. Her mind just wasn't in it, her mind was focused elsewhere, on Jace. He'd seen her bruises, he'd seen them and seemed set on finding out what happened to her.

Jace wanted to help her. How was he supposed to hurt her when her abusive father was the district attorney, capable of ruining someone's life with a word and the scratch of pen on paper? When her brother the all-star football player bent on possession? How was he supposed to help and not get hurt? Was it even possible for her to be rescued? She's been living this life for the past six years.

She was scared for Jace's safety, not hers, even though she would get the punishment of her life were Jonathan or Valentine to find out she was being helped. She was scared to involve him. Yet he seemed so bent on helping her, on saving her, how could she not accept the offer, the command, of letting Jace help?

And there was something else, something sweet and delicious that pooled in her stomach and heart every time she thinks about Jace. It's not like she didn't know what pleasure was, or an orgasm, or sex. She knew the fiery burn of sexual pleasure overriding a body but this warmth was different. It was like having a warm blanket wrapped around her while she sat in front of a fire, drinking hot chocolate, listening to her favorite music. It was a feeling she hadn't known since her mother died, and she all but forgot the name of it.

She was vaguely aware of being in bed now, dried, but still naked, Jonathan looming over his as his mouth touched her everywhere, his hands, his eyes. She shut it out, not wanting to be present when her brother committed a crime against human morals, once again. How is she to focus on this vile act every single time for perhaps the rest of her life? How is she to live with her only remaining family and remain sane? Remain safe?

She feels the invasion, a dull sensation of violation that manages to shake her to her core in her fragile state of mind. She still doesn't fight, unable to conjure the will or reason to battle against her brother when he would just to it again. And again. And again. Hopelessness swells within her. How did her life come to this? Her childhood had been marvelous and beautiful for twelve years, right up until her mother was shot.

Her heart twists painfully in her chest, so much more painful than Jonathan's current assault, so much more painful than his grasping hands, his hard, invasive body. Maybe she just won't get up after he's done, maybe she'll just lie here and waste away. Maybe if she becomes sickly and pale, Valentine and Jonathan will leave her alone, let her go.

Jonathan doesn't notice her withdrawal, doesn't notice how she isn't struggling. She's completely motionless, drowning in bleakness. When it finally ends, she screams out, much more in anguish than pleasure. Her heart is pounding harshly in her chest, threatening to jump out, she hopes it does, hopes it just gives out and ends this, all of it.

She feels terrible now. She's finally given up. She's never felt so depressed or bleak, not even after her mother's death and she thinks herself weak. She couldn't endure this, couldn't endure for herself or her mother. She just can't take it anymore. Jonathan finished with her, lying over her as he kissed up her skin. Clary can't remember the rest of the night but the next thing she knew, she was lying in bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling, her alarm blaring its warning. Five minutes past, ten, thirty, an hour. School's started, she thinks, still lying motionless in bed. First period ends and she's still in bed, second, third, fourth, Jonathan comes in to see why she's still here, finding her bike in the drive.

He checks her temperature, finds it ten degrees over and leaves her with a bowl of canned soup and some pills before going to class. Clary doesn't say anything, just stares at the ceiling, not wanting to move. The soup goes cold, school ends and she still hasn't moved. Jonathan has practice tonight, but gives Clary no peace, knowing he'll still be back and use her again. Getting in his time before Valentine gets back, logging hours like a video game.

She doesn't even flinch when the doorbell rings, musical and charming but to Clary it sounds empty, pointless. Why would someone even want to come ring this doorbell? Jonathan's at practice, Valentine's away and any solicitors don't even dare step on their property because of Valentine's job. They can't even get across the lawn because of the security gate, the guard, the fence. The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time, quick, short, and multiple rings. Clary frowns, her first movement all day. How is someone ringing the doorbell? Jonathan didn't leave the gate open did he? And who would want to come here in the first place?

Clary drags herself from bed, pulling her thick quilt around her and slipping on the soft slippers by her bed. The doorbell rings a few more times, short, insistent notes that demand she move faster. She limps down the stairs, scowling at the door as she unlocks the extensive security system. She's all out glaring by the time she opens the door but is shocked when she's practically assaulted. Roughly grabbed and pulled into a strangling hug. She can't help but melt at the passion seeping from Jace as he holds her like she's the most important thing in the world to him.

He holds her close murmuring nonsense that she only later realizes was, "Thank God you're alive. You're alive. I was so worried." She lays her head on his broad shoulders, closing her eyes and just savoring the feel of his strong arms holding her, no ulterior motive, no harm meant, just concern.

"Hi Jace," she says wistfully, against her own volition, his name coming out like a prayer. She savors the feel and taste of it, wrapping herself up in the sound.

"Clary, where have you been? You left yesterday and didn't come to school this morning. Are you alright? Did the person who's hurting you do something?" Jace's voice sounds marvelous, Clary thinks, burrowing her nose into the snow dotted winter jacket covering Jace's torso and shoulders.

Clary nods her head, not really thinking about what she's doing, just that in this moment, she'll give Jace anything he wants. "It wasn't as bad as it usually is," she murmured, nuzzling his collarbone.

"Usually is? Clary, this happens on a daily basis?" He asks and Clary can't figure out why he sounds so worried. A winter breeze, ran through the door, piercing through her quilt. She shivers and Jace steps forward, scooping her up and closing the door behind him. "Clary is anyone home with you?"

Clary shakes her head, burrowing into the brilliant warmth of Jace, not really acknowledging the warnings going off in her head. Jace felt really nice, and he was so strong, scooping her up without so much heavy breathing.

"Where's your room?" He asks softly, his mouth next to her ear. She grazes her nose under his chin like a cat, liking the semi-rough feel of stubble on his jaw.

"Up the stairs, second door on the right," she murmurs, feeling like she could go to sleep in his arms. Safe from all threats, like her life doesn't exist except for him and she loves the oblivion. The sole feeling of Jace wrapped around her.

She curls into Jace, nearly falling asleep in the comfort of his arms. She hasn't felt this well in years. She can't even feel her extensive injuries and bruises, like they don't exist. He carries her up to her room, lays her on the bed and she's immediately snapped from her pleasant dream reality. Her eyes snap open and she jumps from bed, all her pain slamming into her immediately. Jace is standing by her bed, watching her with wide golden eyes. Eyes that were focused not on her face but her body… her naked body that she had failed to clothe last night or this morning. She'd been covered by the blanket when she answered the door but now it was left on the bed.

She leaps for the blanket, covering herself up quickly, covering her nakedness and her bruised, ugly, battered body. She remembers that she doesn't have make-up on either, and her bruised, bloody, still healing cheek is exposed to him. She can't do anything about it now, he's seen, he's seen what's been done to her. Tears welled in her eyes.

"What do want Jace?" She says softly, her voice breaking. She can feel her knees trembling, threatening to give out. He's in her room and she's naked. What's he going to do to her? All the other times males have set foot in her room, it's been to harm her. She's visibly shaking like a leaf.

"I told you yesterday and I'm not leaving this house until you let me help you. Clary, you need to go to a hospital. There isn't a spot on your body not mangled and bruised," Jace says, stepping forward but Clary steps back, her breath coming shakily, rattling in her lungs. Is he going ot be exactly like her brother and father?

Intellectually, she knew Jace was nothing like her father and brother, but she's been so traumatized by the actions of her family that the irrational fear rises up to almost choke her.

"No," Clary says. "No, I can't go to hospital. My father…" her voice trails off at thinking what would happen if she was in the hospital. What is he going to do if he finds out Jace was here? "God, Jace, you need to go. You need to leave. What time is it?" She glanced at the clock and found she still had a good four hours till Jonathan got home from practice.

"No, I'm not. At least let me take care of the worst of it. Who did that to you?" Jace stepped closer, only inches from her and she could feel the heat coming off him, delicious, comforting heat. Her tension melted a little but didn't drain away completely, she was still trembling. He needs to leave. What if Jonathan comes home early?

"I—I can't, Jace. Jace, please, please leave," Clary says, voice vibrating.

Jace steps up to her, his body brushing hers. Clary tries to beg him with her eyes but his hands come up to cup her face. She tries to flinch away but Jace holds her firmly, gently.

"I don't want to leave and I'm not going to, not when I know you're in danger," he whispers, fingers brushing her cheekbones so lightly they feel like feathers.

"Jace," Clary begins, trying to explain how much danger he's placing himself in just by being in her house.

"Clary. It's time you trust someone, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise you that I will never hurt you. I could never hurt someone as extraordinary and brave and strong as you but it's time you let someone help you shoulder your pain. Let me help you," he says, his voice seduction itself as he leans down.

Clary has no clue what to do except go rigid as his lips connect with hers. Jace's arms slip beneath her blanket to hold her gently to him, avoiding all her bruises as though he'd memorized each one and where it lay just from his brief glance. Clary expected harshness, unrelenting, cold lips, like her brother or father, but Jace's lips are warm, welcoming, enticing as his tongue flicks over her lips, coaxing them open. He floods her with warmth, pouring all his kindness and determination to help her into the kiss, as well as adoration. He admires her for bearing her burden alone.

She's so terrified of sharing it with someone else, she has no desire to see anyone hurt. But her Jace, she has no clue when he became hers, maybe when he barged into her house and carried her up the stairs like a knight or when he brought her breakfast, completely drowns out every horror until she's floating in the pure bliss of his kiss. Her hands bunch in the front of his shirt, pulling her towards him, desperate not to lose the sanctuary his mouth is providing. She feels like nothing can touch her.

She sighs into his mouth, sparks dancing along her body. His light fingers brush over her bare, hypersensitive skin. She shivers as he draws her lower lip into his mouth, tugging gently. Jace steals another breath from her before pulling away, beautifully flushed. His golden blond hair is tousled and wonderfully adorable.

"Will you tell me now?" His voice low and husky.

It's a compulsion. Jace has cast a spell over her and his beautiful, sensual voice demands an answer; he's taken all her will to resist.

"My brother," Clary breathes, amazed to find how easily she's selling her soul, even if it is to an angel. The devil and his right hand owned it first and will not be pleased to find it gone from their possession. "My father. It started after my mother died, he blamed me. I blame myself. He punishes me because of it and he misses Mom so much…" Her voice trails off.

Jace is silent for a moment and Clary doesn't dare to look him in the eye, sure she'll find disgust and contempt so she pulls away from him, wrapping the blanket around her like a shield. But he doesn't let her get far. Jace catches her around the waist and enfolds her in his embrace, a fierce yet gentle hold, as though saying everything will be alright.

"Oh Clary, Clary. How long? How long have you had to live with this, with those people who claim to be your family? How could they treat you like that?" He says, pressing his mouth to her ear, her back pressed up against him. Clary starts to tremble with the beginnings of horrible wracking sobs she can feel building in her gut as she remembers the day her mother died, the funeral, the first night Jonathan forced himself on her, the first night Valentine followed.

"It was my fault," Clary cries, all but collapsing as her knees give out but Jace supports her, gathering her small, fragile frame to his body. "It's my fault Mom's dead! My father hates me for it, my brother too. I've taken my punishment for four years, Jace. I can't take anymore, and I can't let you get hurt because I'm too weak to shoulder it myself. You shouldn't have come here," Clary sobs into his shoulder, clutching his shirt. "You shouldn't have been nice to me, you shouldn't have kissed me. I'm sorry you met me. You need to leave! I'm not going to take any more of this but I don't want you stepping in the middle. You're just going to get hurt! Please leave! No needs me and no one wants me, so just go. Before you get hurt."

Despite Clary's words, she's clutching Jace like a lifeline, hands balled in his shirt, face buried against his chest. His shirt is soaked with her tears but Clary can't stop, she can't stop holding onto him or sobbing, her bruised and battered heart finally breaking over what she'd done, what she's had to endure. What right does she have to be complaining to Jace? When she essentially killed her mother? How is she sobbing in his arms when his very presence in her house is putting him in danger?

"Clary, my sweet, brave, little Clary. I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
